


Knight of Swords

by NowhereAtAll



Series: Tarot Trilogy [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cullen POV, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor POV, Lady And Knight, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Minor canon divergence, Mutual Pining, Redemption, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 98,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4729070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowhereAtAll/pseuds/NowhereAtAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commander Cullen has a chance to put his past behind him. Then the Conclave is destroyed and his chance of redemption is in the hands of a haughty, calculating stranger.</p><p>Enchanter Evelyn isn’t pleased she’s forced to work with the notorious Knight-Captain Cullen. There’s no such thing as a former templar, and this one is a boogeyman among mages.</p><p>Despite their mutual distrust, they both feel an attraction they will do anything to keep secret, especially from one another. They will work together to save Thedas, but they won’t trust each other -- and they certainly won't surrender to hidden desires.<br/>##</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen Pines & Evelyn Pouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one trusts anyone else. Also, Cullen is annoyingly pretty.

It was unfathomable Evelyn would be attracted to any templar, let alone one notorious for serving as the right hand to a knight-commander so cruel and harsh that her actions sparked the mage rebellion.

And he was notorious. He had been the subject of fevered gossip even before he became knight-captain at an absurdly young age under Meredith Stannard. Mages had little capital but information, and some of that exchange included gossip, traveling from one Circle to another like wildfire.

As one of the few survivors of Kinloch, the torture he was subjected to was a matter of speculation throughout the Circles. No one was surprised at the whispers he murdered several apprentices and went on the run.

She didn't know whether he killed the apprentices or not. He disappeared for a time -- some claimed he was sent to Greenfell, where templars of uncertain mind were forgotten -- but she hoped he didn’t kill the apprentices.

Although templars regularly evaded punishment. That she did know.

Then the disaster that was Kirkwall -- the horrific explosion at the chantry, killing thousands, and the ignition of the mage rebellion --  although he was involved in the rebuilding efforts to give grudging credit where it was due. The more cynical mages pointed out Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr was as involved, if not more so, than Ser Rutherford.

She counted it a bad omen when he was introduced as the Commander of the Inquisition. Where Ser Rutherford went, trouble soon followed. She kept her expression blank as they were introduced, but couldn't help the quickening of her pulse or the rush of adrenaline -- fear.

Templars often gave her cause for fear, and this one was a bogeyman among mages.

She tried to control it, but there was a wariness in his eyes that indicated he noticed. Reading templars was a matter of survival in the Circle.

"Lady Trevelyan." He bowed his head ever so slightly -- to be honest, it was more courteous than she expected. His tone was polite and, but for the tightness around his mouth, his expression bland.

"Ser." She was curt, but couldn't help it. She did swallow her grimace. First Enchanter Brenna would be disappointed in her lack of control.  

Leliana and Cassandra traded a glance. She hoped her fear and dislike would go unremarked -- Maker knew she was accustomed to hiding her feeling from templars -- but her distaste was too great.

She excused herself as soon as possible. She attended the Conclave at the behest of her parents, who begged her to make peace with her templar cousins, especially after "the incident." Evelyn pushed the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about the screaming and the stench of smoke. Maker knew she dreamed of it often enough.

Now, her cousins likely were as dead as Divine Justinia, and she was little more than a prisoner -- with _him_ as one of her jailers. Perhaps it would have been better if she died in the explosion with all the others. It certainly would have been less complicated.

She walked through the village, nodding when hailed by the villagers. Her expression was neutral, but within the privacy of her thoughts, she was baffled. With the closing of a single rift, she went from pariah to the Herald of Andraste. All she did was _reach_.

She clenched her marked hand; its unwanted, mysterious magic was alien and frightening. Nothing she studied in the Circle readied her for this, and she feared the mark’s clear connection to the Fade would make her even more susceptible to possession.

She walked through the gates, any further greetings lost under the song of war -- ringing swords and clashing shields -- as the soldiers endlessly drilled. She kept walking, although she knew the soldiers took note. She didn’t doubt they would stop her or send for the Seeker if she attempted to leave. They called her Herald, but she was as much a prisoner as when she wore chains.

Evelyn stopped at the edge of a small pond, nestled at the bottom of the incline and frozen over. She moved to tuck her hands into the sleeves of her robes before she remembered she wasn’t wearing robes, only a tunic and breeches. It was strange, after years wearing a mage’s robes.

Evelyn was sent to the Circle when her powers manifested at ten. The Trevelyans were a large family with a long history of magically gifted children, and she had cousins at various Free Marches Circles.

Those Trevelyans not condemned to the Circle or destined for rule served the Chantry in other ways. The women as sisters -- because who would serve as a templar, if they could rule as a priest? -- with the exception of a few who were strong-willed and desirous of service. The men of her family usually became templars if they weren’t involved with the family’s business interests. Some of her templar cousins were at the Ostwick Circle. The name Trevelyan wasn’t as important as the distinction mage or templar. Even those she was close to in childhood were distant.

Evelyn became a junior enchanter by thirty and was a contender for senior enchanter when the circles disbanded, although her relative youth hurt her cause. She feared and disliked many templars and chafed at the numerous and sometimes ridiculous restrictions the Circle placed on mages, but it was a better life than many.

And now, all this … and to rub salt in a wound, him.

She supposed it wasn’t unusual he reminded her of another templar, but she would prefer he not remind her of that particular templar. She hadn’t thought of Edwyn in many years, although she was reminded of the consequences of mage-templar fraternization often enough.

She had been an apprentice, still a few years away from her Harrowing. Edwyn had just taken his vows and wasn’t much older. He was handsome, but more importantly, he was warm and, on the surface, at least, kind. He smiled, greeted mages and passed the time of day. He might have had all the personality of a blank wall -- she couldn’t remember, and her judgment was questionable, given the circumstances -- and she would have found him fascinating.

They hadn’t done more than exchange shy smiles and a note or two, but the others knew. Templars always knew.

It was the golden hair, she decided. When Edwyn was on guard duty in the library, she often sat with a book open and untouched in front of her, peeking at him and swooning over how the light fell through the library’s soaring windows and touched his blond hair with gold.

Edwyn was sweet, naive and very young. This man was dangerous, harsh and foreboding. But the light touched their hair in the same way, and she felt … something. Maybe nostalgia. Certainly nothing more. She couldn’t be attracted to this grim man with his scarred face and deep shadows under his eyes. More importantly, she mistrusted the shadows _in_ his eyes.

She didn’t say anything when the Seeker joined her, and Cassandra seemed content to stand beside her and watch the snow dance over the ice.

“You don’t approve of our choice for commander,” Cassandra said after some time.

Evelyn thought about how she should respond for good two minutes before she spoke. “He is well-known, but not well-regarded among my fellow mages. His presence will make recruiting the rebel mages more difficult.”

“Yes.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

“Why?” Evelyn asked.

“The years he spent in Kirkwall after the rebellion,” Cassandra said.

If she chose him because of that, she was mad. He contributed to the rebellion -- he was cleaning up his own mess, and reports out of Kirkwall indicated the city still was unstable.

“He is very young for the position,” Evelyn observed. “Most noncommissioned officers who might serve under him are older.” She had tunics older than the Inquisition’s commander.

“He is nearly thirty,” Cassandra said. “And he wasn’t chosen for his age, but his actions.”

“But why him? He has led no armies, has no connections outside the Templar Order and brings no troops of his own.” Ser Rutherford’s appointment baffled Evelyn.

“Most Holy wanted a man like him -- he has no connections, but neither is he beholden to anyone.”

“A fair point --” but how she hated to admit it! “-- but perhaps Divine Justinia should have chosen someone who actually has seen battle instead of a glorified prison guard?”

Cassandra appeared to give her question careful thought, tilting her head and clicking her tongue. “Commander Cullen understands both mage and templar tactics. The Inquisition was not formed to march on nations, but to quell the mage-templar war. As a mage, you would be most familiar with templars’ Circle duties." Cassandra adroitly side-stepped Evelyn's "prison guards" description. "But their duties are broader than that: They destroy demons --"

"And abominations," Evelyn said.

"Have you ever seen an abomination?"

Evelyn shook her head.

"I pray you never will. Do you know why an abomination is so terrible?”

Evelyn shook her head a second time. She was sure Cassandra would tell her without prompting.

“The mages whose bodies and powers the demons steal are still self-aware. They know their powers are being used for slaughter.”

Evelyn suppressed a shudder. She had heard this, but mages didn’t speak much about abominations.

“Ending their torment is a mercy, but, yes, templars are tasked with destroying abominations, along with guarding and defending chantries and Circles alike, criminal investigations and more."

Evelyn wondered if "more" meant hunting down apostates.

“Also, Cullen assisted Guard Captain Aveline in holding Kirkwall together for years,” Cassandra said. “She doesn’t suffer fools. And there were other considerations. Commander Cullen wants to give himself to a cause that serves the greater good.”

Evelyn could just imagine the nascent Inquisition knew exactly what the “greater good” was and Cassandra wouldn’t appreciate her pointing it out. “Still, he is so young!”

“He was knight-captain in Kirkwall.”

“Under a mad woman,” Evelyn scoffed. “Do you think she chose him, despite his youth and Kinloch, because he was talented beyond his years or because his inexperience and well-known fear of mages made him easier to manipulate and control?”

“Yet he survived and stood against her in the end.”

“His association with the Inquisition will make it almost impossible to negotiate with the rebel mages. And it isn’t as if Ser Rutherford easily could have gone to another Circle. What Knight-Commander would have him after he led an uprising against Ser Stannard? He had nowhere else to go. What sort of loyalty will that buy your fledging Inquisition?”

“Cullen could have ruled Kirkwall if he chose.” Cassandra crossed her arms and looked down the snowy bank. “He managed to shield both mages and templars from Stannard as best he could. He has flaws and faults, but surviving under her rule isn’t one of them.”

“And what about the mages who had to survive under _his_ rule?”

“Do you have knowledge of abuses he has committed?” Cassandra asked. “If you do, then tell me. I don’t wish to be blindsided.”

Evelyn bit back her frustration. She didn’t have even rumors to convince Cassandra. “It was well known Kirkwall’s templars abused their charges. He may not have committed any crimes himself, but they all happened under his watch.”

“And Stannard hid things from him. Things are not as we planned, but we must make do with what we have.”

It wasn’t even an excuse. Either the knight-captain was a fool or a monster, and their chances weren’t good with either. But Evelyn knew she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t have any choices. “Must you also make do with a prisoner?”

“You are no longer our prisoner.” Cassandra hesitated. “I was wrong about you. I wanted finding Most Holy’s killer to be easy. I believe the Maker placed us on this path -- including you and Commander Cullen. Most Holy saw something worthy in him. She believed in second chances.”

Divine Justinia’s poor choices resulted in the First Enchanters and Lord Seeker Lambert’s templars engaging in out-and-out battle in the White Spire. She presided over a Conclave that saw the upper two-thirds of the Chantry leadership wiped off the map. Her endorsement wasn’t comforting.

“We need your help,” Cassandra said. “No one else is capable of closing the rifts.”

The Fade allowed demons into the world and endangered mages -- especially neophytes -- everywhere; not helping wasn’t an option. “I will do whatever I can to see this through,” Evelyn said.

Including enduring the knight-captain.

For now.

##

There was much to do, few people to do it and little time to get it done. Cullen was up before dawn and usually didn't stumble back to his bedroll until long after dark fell. His exhaustion cast a strange, melancholic pall over his thoughts.

The nightmares didn’t help.

He didn’t want his soldiers to hear him thrashing and crying out in his sleep through the thin tent walls, so he took his bedroll into the wooded area outside the village and slept there. He didn’t like small, enclosed spaces since Kinloch Hold anyway.

The nightmares tormented him, but they were as familiar as the lullabies his mother sang him in Honnleath, before his wish to see the wider world was granted.

Desire always used Warden-Commander Solona Amell's face to torment him.

Two weeks ago, he woke up gasping and trembling, the Herald's face fresh in his mind. Since then, the Herald appeared in his dreams three more times. It was disconcerting, especially when his duties required him to speak to her the following morning. It was difficult when he dreamed she said and did such filthy and horrifying things to him, pain and shameful pleasure so intertwined he could no longer separate them.

She disliked him. It wasn't overt; she was polite, but she never sought him out as she did Cassandra, Leliana or Josephine. At first, he thought she simply preferred their company, but he could no longer deny she went out of her way to avoid him.

Cullen could have dealt with her polite dislike -- when he was Kirkwall’s knight-captain, there were more than a few templars who disliked him, in part because of his rapid promotions at such a young age -- if his feelings were neutral or even dislike in return, but he was completely infatuated with her.

In meetings, he caught himself admiring her profile or listening to the lilt of her voice without considering her words. He thought such boyish besottedness was ripped out by the root in Kinloch. He was unsure whether his passion began with the nightmare or the new twist in the nightmare began with his fascination.  

Cullen considered taking lyrium again. It didn't stop the nightmares, but it muted them. In the end, he put the vials away.

For now.

##

Evelyn stalked through the camp. She concentrated on breathing evenly and keeping her expression placid. She should have known it would come to this, and quickly, too.

She didn’t need to read the letter again, she had it memorized. She didn’t doubt Ser Rutherford meant it as a dressing down. Phrases like “properly represent the Inquisition” and “you are an agent, not an ambassador” came to mind. She didn’t want to be an agent. She was a captive, charged with the crime of living when everyone else died. Then they changed their minds and decided she was their savior -- again, while she was unconscious.

Maker only knew where she would be now if they didn’t need her to close the Breach.

She spotted Ser Rutherford overseeing the drills. Always overseeing the drills; the man never seemed to do anything else, but he had time to write her tersely worded letters about making promises on the Inquisition’s behalf.  

Evelyn stood at his elbow, waiting for him to speak, but he only watched the tide of soldiers ebb back and forth. She stewed, becoming more irritated by the minute. He didn’t look at her, and Evelyn was half-convinced it was some masterstroke of strategy to enrage her. Either that, or the man was oblivious.

“Ser Rutherford?”

“Yes?” He didn’t so much as twitch or look at her. He knew she was there the entire time.

“I’d like to discuss your note. Your instructions.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a problem with me, Ser Rutherford?”

“No, Lady Trevelyan.” He crossed his hands over the pommel of his sword. “But you must be mindful of the promises you make on behalf of the Inquisition. I know your position within the Inquisition is … undefined, but it would reflect badly on us if we were unable or unwilling to keep a promise you made. They wouldn’t understand you don’t speak on behalf of the Inquisition.”

“I wasn’t aware I was to report to you, ser.”

He crossed his arms. “I had guessed that, not having seen a single report from you.”

Evelyn ground her teeth. “Please excuse, ser. Perhaps you could bestir yourself and get one of the many I’ve written for Leliana and Josephine.”

“And Cassandra,” he added. “But not me.”

“If I should need your input on something, I’ll write a report.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “But, truly, ser, I wouldn’t hold my breath. Cassandra provides me with plenty of military insight. You needn’t bother with any more instructions.”

He shifted, looming over her. “If you observe troop strength, movement or any activity that needs addressed through our forces, then I need to know. I lead the troops, not Cassandra, Lady Trevelyan, despite your dislike. Cassandra could have done so if she wished, but she recruited me.”

"You have a control problem, Ser Rutherford." She was having trouble with _her_ control. Her palm itched with the need to slap him.

"Perhaps you see it so well because you have a problem with it yourself, Lady Trevelyan." The scarred corner of his mouth twitched. The tic happened more frequently the longer they were in one another's company.

She smiled her sweetest, iciest smile. "I don't take your meaning." She clenched her fist, hidden among the folds of her long coat, to keep from reddening his cheek.

"You have a temper, and more politely you speak to me, the closer you are to losing it."

She counted her breaths. "I am always in control, ser. Anything else would invite possession. But we were speaking of you and your irrational need to exercise control over everyone around you. It is a problem."

"The only person who has a problem with it is you. Perhaps I should ask you the same: Do you have a problem with me?"

"Of course not," she said, every word dripping with venomous politeness.

He sighed. "You are a liar, lady."

She had to get away before she raked her nails down his cheek and gave him a new scar. Confronting him was a bad idea. “As you say, Ser Rutherford.”

“Commander.”

“Pardon?” She raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“My Inquisition title is commander.” He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Herald.”

“And mine is enchanter, as you very well know. Do you think to command me?” She did not pull away, because he likely expected her to do so. His grip was firm, but not uncomfortable, and his larger hands dwarfed hers. She didn't react outwardly, but she was furious; how dare he touch her without permission!

“I lead the forces of the Inquisition.”

“Am I not an Inquisition agent?” She tilted her head. She wished arguing with him wasn’t quite so bracing. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be an Inquisition agent -- or she had a choice.

“You are the Herald.”

“I am Enchanter Evelyn. Again, I ask: Do you think to command me? I am an Inquisition agent.”

“I don't think anyone does command you. Or can.” He released her.

She was oddly disappointed. She turned on her heel and marched away, now angry with herself as well as him.

##

The headaches were bad, but they were only pain. Cullen could endure pain. Pain was as familiar as an old friend, its peaks and valleys known and charted. Pain could not surprise him. Pain was bad, but bearable.

The shaking and fevers were worse, because when his hands spasmed or his face was flushed and sweating, his soldiers knew. They averted their eyes and pretended not to see, but they knew. It shamed him and reminded him he was an addict. No matter what he did, no matter how long he went without lyrium, he never would forget the rush rolling through his veins or how powerful and invincible it made him feel. Part of him would never stop yearning for that power.

It was a weakness deliberately instilled in him and all templars by those who took advantage of their naivety, desire for service and ignorance. He would never forgive them -- or himself for falling for it.

The pain was bad, the fevers and shaking worse, but the hallucinations were worst of all. It was difficult when he had company and he struggled to keep his attention where it should be, but even more when he was alone and there were no distractions from the horrors his mind dredged up. He began to doubt his sanity.

Perhaps he never left Kinloch Hold, and his entire life as a templar, except a few brief months, was a demon-spawned nightmare. Kirkwall was a Void-damned place. Perhaps the Inquisition and his attempts extricate himself from lyrium’s clutching grasp were cruel dreams, a prelude to having it all pulled out from under him.

He fixed his gaze past the monsters and madmen who capered and cavorted through his waking nightmares and told himself over and over it was nothing, the Inquisition and his life were reality. He dug his fingers into the edge of his desk and recited the chant as shield and shelter against insanity.

Sometimes, he doubted.

##

Evelyn was irritated, but it wasn’t surprising since she needed to deal with Ser Rutherford. His mere presence was mildly irritating at best, and his views on templars infuriating at worst. The prospect of requesting a favor from him was daunting enough, but she looked for him unsuccessfully all day.

Quartermaster Threnn told her there weren’t enough blankets for Inquisition soldiers, let alone refugees, but Evelyn convinced Josephine to obtain some through her diplomatic channels. Josephine assured her it would require only a small favor on the Inquisition’s part, but would result in increased goodwill among the common folk who made up the bulk of their forces and workers.

All Evelyn needed to do was convince Ser Rutherford to have his soldiers distribute them. Josephine and she agreed it would be best for those wearing Inquisition heraldry to pass out the blankets.

Since Evelyn and Ser Rutherford last argued, she avoided him, so it would be awkward to ask him for a favor. She only spoke with him at war council meetings -- she wished she could send just her hand, since that was all they wanted -- and he remained annoyingly supportive of recruiting the templars.

And handsome; that bothered her. The suffering he inflicted, directly or indirectly, wasn’t reflected in his appearance. It was a childish idea that cruelty should show in a person’s face. It bothered her she found him so attractive and her pulse quickened over a man who defended the Circle system.

After Edwyn was sent to another Circle -- punished, really -- she avoided romantic entanglements with templars. She never understood the deviancy of those mages who pursed templars. Templars were mages’ jailers -- and executioners, in some cases. Templars stood ever-ready to execute any mage they believed to be maleficar, and she shuddered at the innate coldness of someone who took a lover they might kill. She couldn’t imagine sharing her heart with someone willing to put a blade through it.

Yet, there was something about Ser Rutherford, and she wondered at her own perversity. Perhaps she thrilled at the idea of bringing a notorious mage-hater to heel. She would prefer he made no appearances in her fantasies, but her mind wandered where it would at night. It disturbed and disgusted her, yet excited her as well. Her confusion meant she stayed well away from him.

And now she needed a favor.

She expected to find him at the training grounds, but he wasn’t there the first or second time she looked. A third time wasn’t a charm, and he couldn’t be found in the chantry, either. She ran out of ideas.

She finally found him by chance, leaving the field hospital as she delivered another batch of elfroot. He didn’t speak to her or even acknowledge her.

“Ser Rutherford.”

He turned at the sound of his name, and he was more pale and haggard than usual. There were fine lines around his eyes and a grim set to his mouth that made him look a decade older. His shoulders were slumped.

She stopped in her tracks, unsure. “Ser Rutherford.” Perhaps he was tired enough to give her what she wanted so she would go away.

“Lady Trevelyan.” Even his voice was wrung out.

“I would ask a favor of you.”

“I apologize, lady, but I am all out of favors at the moment.” He turned away.

Everything about him made her angry -- it was safer and more familiar that way -- but his casual dismissal made her seethe. She swallowed her anger. She couldn’t afford it when asking for his help. “But I’ve been searching for you all day.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said, curt.

“We’re all busy, ser. I only need a few minutes of your time.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Is it urgent?”

“I can’t speak to what you find urgent.”

“If you’re dithering this much, it can wait until tomorrow. I’ve pressing duties to attend.”

She bristled. “You’re not the only one with duties.”

He stalked through camp, head down, and she had to jog to keep up. It was undignified.

“Ser Rutherford, if it pleases you!”

He stopped, and she was three steps past him before she realized.

“Lady Trevelyan, I have letters of condolence to write, and I’m sure whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.” He walked away.

She crossed her arms, realized her body language betrayed her frustration, uncrossed them and decided to drop off the herbs as planned.

The sisters wrapped a body for burial as she entered the tent.

Evelyn bowed her head in respect.

An older sister accepted the herbs, and two soldiers came into the tent to retrieve the body for burning. This close to the Breach, they didn’t dare leave bodies unattended, lest they be possessed.

“Who are they preparing for burning?” she asked the sister quietly.

“Aeron.” The sister bowed her head. “His friends will sing the Chant for him.”

The two men lifted the stretcher and carried the body out without a word. Another sister trailed behind them, hands clasped in prayer, singing the Canticle of Transfigurations.

“I am sorry.” Evelyn felt helpless to adequately express condolences. These sisters saved so many, yet saw so much death.

“Thank you, Herald.” The sister squeezed Evelyn’s hands. “It is good to know the Inquisition is in the hands of people like yourself and Commander Cullen.”

“I just saw Ser Rutherford leaving … ” She couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“Yes, he stayed with Aeron until the end. The boy was Ferelden, far from home and missing his family … the Commander helped ease his mind at the end.”

Evelyn was speechless.

The sister turned and picked up a bowl. "Look at me, gossiping when I have work to do. Good evening, Lady Herald."

"Good evening, sister." Evelyn left the field hospital, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle that was Ser Rutherford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to build playlists for writing/editing. This is the one I've been using for this fic. I've added and subtracted songs, but as I finished this story, this is where it was, in case anyone has any interest.   
> Song to the Siren, This Mortal Coil  
> Take Me to Church, Hozier  
> Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley  
> Killing Me Softly With His Song, Fugees  
> I'm on Fire, Bruce Springsteen  
> Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover, Sophie B. Hawkins  
> With or Without You, U2  
> (I Can't Help) Falling in Love With You, UB40  
> Don't Let Go (Love), En Vogue  
> When Doves Cry, Prince  
> Wicked Game, Chris Isaak  
> Madness, Muse  
> Desire, U2  
> Truly Madly Deeply, Savage Garden  
> It Will Rain, Bruno Mars  
> Criminal, Fiona Apple  
> Nothing Compares 2 U, Sinead O'Connor  
> Fallin', Alicia Keys  
> Bleeding Love, Leona Lewis  
> Mercy, Shawn Mendes  
> Un-Break My Heart, Toni Braxton  
> Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), Eurythmics  
> Cry Little Sister, Gerard McMann  
> Stay, Shakespears Sister  
> Unchained Melody, Righteous Brothers  
> All of Me, John Legend  
> Oh My Love, The Score


	2. Cullen Frets & Evelyn Fumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is a woobie, and Evelyn is annoyed. Situation normal.

_Knight-Captain!_

Cullen disdained the knight-captain: a suspicious, frightened man, made small by the paranoia encouraged and nurtured by Meredith. The knight-captain was a man to whom violence came easily and naturally -- a first response instead of a last resort. The knight-captain believed nothing and believed _in_ nothing. Cullen left Kirkwall behind and prayed he left the knight-captain there as well, but he doubted.

When Cassandra first approached him, he wasn't able to conceal his relief. He no longer recognized the Order and wondered if he ever understood it or if he always saw it through a boy's eyes.

Cullen wanted to believe he wasn't easily seduced from his duties in Kirkwall, but the truth was the city never felt like his home and he was eager to put it and all the failures and disappointments he endured there behind him, so he followed Cassandra across the Waking Sea.

The morning before he met the Divine, he looked in the mirror in his small room, and the knight-captain looked back at him.

Cullen applied handfuls of pomade, smoothing out the heavy curls. That was better, but not enough, so he shaved the goatee he cultivated since he was an initiate. Meredith liked to stroke his chin just there when she was pleased with him -- he pushed the thought and the associated memories away.

He touched his smooth face and stared at his reflection. He looked younger and the scar on his mouth more prominent.

The scar was Meredith's parting kiss. He could never again look at his own reflection and fail to remember how much he allowed her to shape him in exchange for a false sense of safety. Nothing was safe by the end; he sacrificed duty and responsibility for _nothing_.

Cullen avoided mirrors.

His new armor wasn't ready yet, and he left his templar armor behind with nearly everything else he owned. He wanted no reminders.

Cullen could not wear a sword in the Divine's presence; the Knights-Divine wouldn't allow it, because he was no longer with the Order -- another reason to shun wearing the Sword of Mercy.

He picked up the tabard delivered that morning and stroked the bear-fur pauldrons. The animal had menaced a small village, and the villagers asked Cullen's party for assistance as they passed through on their way to Val Royeaux. He did it because they asked, but also because it was a relief to behave as a knight should. The village leaders sent the pauldrons and tabard as a gift.

Cullen shrugged them on, but they hung loosely. He had lost weight from seasickness and lyrium withdrawal. He smoothed down the wool -- the finest garment he ever owned, and he _earned_ it -- then belted the tabard. He wore nothing but a tunic beneath, but he when he looked in the mirror, he couldn't see the knight-captain anymore. The tension in his shoulders eased.

He patted his trouser pocket, feeling the small coin. It only brought him good memories: his siblings and parents, Honnleath and the innocent dreams he once cherished before reality tarnished them.

_That is not my title. We are no longer templars._

"You are pale," Cassandra said. "And gaunt."

"It cannot be helped," Cullen said. "I am as I am." So he was sallow and hollow-eyed; being handsome wasn't a virtue.

Cassandra adjusted a gauntlet as they walked down the hall toward the cathedral’s audience chamber. "Most Holy is very perceptive," she fretted.

"I am as I am," he repeated. He was an addict, a soldier who followed orders, a man plagued by nightmares and the sins of his past. The Divine would find him wanting.

Whether she would accept him into her service was another thing.

They approached the massive doors, a Knight-Divine standing on either side, anonymous in their helms and pikes at the ready. The Knights-Divine nodded to Cassandra, but didn't acknowledge Cullen's presence. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps they wouldn't have greeted the knight-captain either.

Cassandra opened the traverse door and walked through without pause.

Cullen's first impression was vastness and color. Stained glass windows depicted Andraste's life from her capture by Tevinter slavers to Hessarian's mercy. The floors were no less decorative; Cullen strode across the history of the Chantry, rendered in mosaics.

The great gold disk at the apex of the throne, high above the Divine's head, flashed and shone in the light pouring through the stained glass windows in the cupola above. Shafts of colored light touched on gilded accents throughout the room.

There were none of the clerics, knights and courtiers who should have filled the room. His footsteps echoed through the nearly empty room. It was early, yes, but not so early that no one else would be there, not even the Divine's attendants. Cullen was wary, but also curious.

Divine Justinia sat, her back straight and shoulders square, framed by the ornate golden flourishes of the Sunburst Throne. She appeared as immovable as the pillars on either side of the throne.

Cullen couldn't help a rush of awe. This was the Divine, who led the faithful and spread the Chant. He was thirteen years old again in the time it took him to cross the expanse of gold-and-red marble floor and kneel at the foot of her dais, pressing his hands and forehead to the floor as he prostrated himself before her. He was a child again, listening to tales of Andraste: warrior, poet, rebel, Maker’s chosen, redeemer, betrayed and _Ferelden_.

“Most Holy,” he said. “I am honored by your invitation.”

“He does like his rules, doesn’t he, Cassandra?” Divine Justinia said.  

"Cullen is like me, Most Holy: He needs to know where he stands," Cassandra said.

"And rules help you do that?" the Divine asked.

She hadn't told him to rise, so Cullen stayed on his knees. "Sometimes." He thought about Meredith's rules, set like traps to snare the unwary.

"And sometimes, times change, and if the rules don't change with them, we must break them." Justinia was quiet for a long moment. "It is said an obedient templar is preferable to a devout templar."

"I have heard that, but I am no longer a templar, Most Holy." His knees would begin to hurt soon, but he didn't move.

She leaned forward, examining him. "I see. But were you an obedient or devout templar?”

Cullen’s hands trembled and sweat beaded at his temples and on his upper lip. Already withdrawal racked his mind and body. He lifted his gaze to meet the Divine’s eyes. “I was obedient. I have not been devout in a long time, Most Holy.”

She nodded, but her eyes clouded over with an emotion he couldn’t read. “Are you still obedient?”

Cullen hesitated, unsure of the answer she wanted. If he failed here, he had nowhere else to go. He would end up in the gutter, like so many before him. “I am as obedient as my conscience will allow, Most Holy.” He was done being a yes-man and telling those in power what they wanted to hear. “I will not close my eyes and obey without question. I am no longer an obedient templar."

“And what does that mean?”

“I will behave as a knight should, regardless of orders. I will harm no innocents and I will inflict no punishment incommensurate with the crime.” He bowed his head. “I cannot be an obedient soldier again, Most Holy.” It came so close to destroying him, and he might never have noticed if not for Hawke’s intervention.

“How should a knight behave, serrah?” Justinia asked.

“As a protector.”

“And if I don’t take you into my personal service, what will you do?”

Cullen shrugged helplessly. “I will join a mercenary company.” He was surprised by the answer. He didn’t know he would say it until it came out of his mouth. “I can still fight.”

“And if your mercenary captain asks you to do something against your new code?” she asked.

“I will leave. There are many mercenary companies.” He only wished he was as confident as he sounded.

“You don’t allow yourself much flexibility.”

“I can no longer afford such flexibility. You have your Left Hand. I have only myself.”

An expression of distress passed over Justinia’s face so quickly Cullen doubted he saw it. “Point taken. I need a man who can lead,” Justinia said. “I am not interested in a man who commands. Do you understand the difference?”

He shook his head. “I only know that I do not ask my templars to do anything I will not. Their lives are not coins to be spent.”

“How long has it been since you stopped taking lyrium?”

He froze for a second, then glanced at Cassandra, who shook her head; she hadn’t told the Divine.

“I recognize the symptoms. Leliana?” Justinia said.

The Divine’s Left Hand stepped out of the shadows behind the Sunburst Throne. She moved like a big cat Cullen once saw in Kirkwall’s menagerie: graceful and dangerous at the same time. His knees began to hurt, but he did not shift position.

“Not for several weeks, I would guess, by the look of him,” Leliana said.

“Not since Kirkwall,” Cullen said.

“Why?” Justinia asked.

“I am no longer a templar.”

“But you will suffer,” she said.

“Then I will suffer. I am no longer a templar. I will not be bound to the Chantry by addiction. If I serve, then let it be because it is my choice.”

The Divine rose and offered him her hand. “Are you still on your knees? Please stand, Ser Cullen.”

_We are all part of the Inquisition._

“Do you know what the Inquisition was?” the Divine asked.

Cullen walked with her along the path that led to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was a far walk, but she was healthy, strong and stubborn. Cullen hadn’t been in her service long, but he already admired her and understood her to be a woman of uncommon intelligence and empathy, but one who played the Game exceedingly well.

“It was the military arm of the Chantry.” He touched the hilt of his sword. The path was well-guarded, and a company of Knights-Divine accompanied Justinia wherever she went, but caution never hurt. “Before the templars and seekers.”

“It was dangerous to any that opposed it.” Justinia walked in silence for several moments. “It should not have become what it did. Even in the days when Ameridan served Drakon, it was ripe for corruption. So much power to be held in so few hands …”

“There is a chance for peace,” Cullen said. “I wouldn’t have believed the Conclave possible, but you have brought them together, Most Holy. Perhaps declaring an Inquisition won’t be necessary.”

“I pray you are right, but I fear you are wrong. I fear that, after eight hundred years, the Inquisition will return. I fear its return, but I fear what will happen to the people if this war isn’t stopped more.”

“Plan for the worst and hope for the best,” Cullen said.

“Is that your usual reaction?” Justinia took his arm as they began the ascent to the temple.

“No.” Cullen examined the bend in the path ahead. What lay before them was hidden; it was an excellent place for an ambush. “I haven’t hoped for anything in some time.”

“And now?”

“And now, I pray for peace, hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

“As we all must do,” Justinia said. “I have prepared for the worst. Cassandra has the writ. I will join my prayers to yours and hope for the best, but if the worst comes to pass, then the Inquisition will be ready.”

“Do you think that wise?” Cullen asked.

“No.” Justinia shook her head. “I think it desperate.”

##

Harrit examined the plans and grunted. "Yes, we can do this, Herald. Just leave me the materials."

"Very good," she said. "I look forward to seeing the finished product."

He saluted and she returned the gesture, although it felt strange. There were never any such displays in the Circle. Templars rarely acknowledged mages' presence and receiving a military-style salute was out of the question.

Blackwall had conscripted a bench in the corner, where he worked on a small wooden shield. He painted a comical, pop-eyed monster on the front.

Evelyn looked over his shoulder, hands on her hips. "Interesting heraldry, Warden. Very ... fierce."

"Not too fierce, I hope." He examined the shield with a critical eye, then made a few touch-ups before setting it aside to dry. A miniature wooden sword sat nearby, the sword of mercy painted in red on the blade.

"These aren't for you," Evelyn said.

Blackwall shook his head. "No, Commander Cullen heard I had some talent in woodworking."

Evelyn raised her eyebrows. "He's not satisfied with his current gear?"

Blackwall snorted in amusement. "It's not to use, my lady. It's to give. A present."

She was intrigued. Ser Rutherford proved to be a puzzle, and she enjoyed puzzles. "A child?"

"You should ask him yourself," Blackwall answered, and that was all she could get from him.

She hadn’t seen Ser Rutherford so much as look at one of the children who hung about the edges of the training field, eyes wide, watching fathers and uncles and, yes, even brothers and grandfathers, as they moved through their drills, now as accomplished as any dance.

She hated to give Ser Rutherford even that much credit, especially given her earlier protests to Cassandra.

Cassandra made a point to express her pleasure over the troops' progress, and Evelyn was forced to give Ser Rutherford grudging acknowledgement. He wasn't insufferably smug about it, which surprised her. She liked to imagine he was smug about a great many things -- it made it easier to hate him -- so it was a disappointment when he passed on a chance.

The idea of Ser Rutherford giving a present when she never saw him give anyone even a smile was one she couldn't shake. The only way to banish it was to get the story directly from him. She sighed. She did such a good job avoiding him of late.

She approached him as the latest batch of recruits were retiring for the day, racking blunted swords and hanging up shields.

His voice was hoarse as he called out his final instructions for the day before dismissing them for dinner.

"I make a honeyed tea that would take care of that," she said.

"I'm sorry?" His voice was lower and rougher than usual, and she shivered.

"Your hoarse throat. I'll give the recipe to the sisters." She could afford to be polite the first time she made the request. Nothing stopped her from resorting to strong-arm tactics if politeness failed.

"Thank you, Herald."

"I wanted to ask about progress on the watch towers near Redcliffe Farm. I think we can convince Master Dennett to see to the horses personally if they go up."

He raised his eyebrows. "I should have known you weren't here to inquire after my health. Work on the towers is nearly complete. My guess is you should be able to approach the horsemaster on your next visit to the Hinterlands."

She wanted to huff in irritation over his presumption, but he might think she cared about his opinion. "Thank you, Ser Rutherford. I will be sure to stop and give the healers the recipe." She smiled broadly, because it never failed to annoy him. "Always a pleasure."

He inclined his head in the most shallow of bows. "Likewise, Lady Trevelyan." He lied through his teeth.

She took a measured three steps away, then turned around. "I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you about the little wooden shield and sword you asked Blackwall to make. I confess to curiosity."

The scarred corner of his mouth twitched. "It is for the son of a templar who accompanied me when I left Kirkwall."

The idea of a templar having a family was strange. Evelyn hoped the boy didn't turn out to be a mage. "When you fled Kirkwall?" She widened her eyes, the false picture of innocence.

He must hate when she did that; the corner of his mouth twitched again. "Fled Kirkwall? You don't think highly of me, Lady Trevelyan."

"It is hard to do otherwise given your reputation. But, please, Ser Rutherford, correct me -- if you can."

He didn't say anything for several moments. "The Knight-Commander prevented another viscount from being named after Dumar's death. It meant she could rule in all but name." He frowned, his eyes far away. "After she ... died, it left a power vacuum. The templars were decimated by the fighting at the Gallows, but we were one of the few powers left.

“Only the city guard could match us for numbers, so the scavengers tried to pit the templars against Aveline's guard. Not just once, but many times." He shook his head. "It became clear the scheming would never stop until there was a clear victor, but ... there was so much rebuilding left to do. And there were still mages at the Gallows. After the chantry explosion, they needed our protection more than ever."

He wasn't talking to her anymore, but she didn't interrupt. She wondered what motivated him to leave Kirkwall when he was in a position to rule after Viscount Marian Hawke disappeared. The powerful rarely abdicated willingly.

"I knew it was an unwinnable situation, but I couldn't turn my back on my duties to the Order, the mages or the city. Then, the Circles disbanded, and the few mages left fled seemingly overnight."

Evelyn bet those poor mages escaped as soon as they were given half a chance. The Kirkwall Circle was a nightmare by all accounts, and it was strange to hear him speak of his duty to the mages. A pity he didn't consider that duty while those same mages were abused and made Tranquil.  

"The Order declared the Chantry violated the Accords and many of those left in Kirkwall wished to resign their service or retreat to the White Spire and seek the guidance of the Lord Seeker.

"Then Cassandra made her offer. I could reassign those templars left and withdraw with the Chantry’s blessing.” He grimaced. “It didn’t feel so much like abandoning my post that way.

"Those who wished to go to Val Royeaux, I gave leave to do so." He shook his head. "Given the confrontation between you and the Lord Seeker, I regret that now."

"You could not have known." He wouldn't set the Inquisition up to be humiliated, and she recognized that despite her dislike.

"I didn't know anything about the situation. I should have made inquiries. I should have gathered more information." His hands were clenched and his brow furrowed.

"You were leaving Kirkwall?" she reminded him.

"Those templars who wanted to resign their service and join the guard were given leave to do so." The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smile. "Guard-Captain Aveline is an extraordinary woman. I've never met any like her."

"To be sure." Evelyn didn't know what annoyed her more: his effusive praise or her inexplicable jealousy. She didn't want his attention or his admiration. The captain could have it -- and him -- with Evelyn's blessing.

"She loves the city and has the people's best interests at heart. I knew she would be able to administrate unchallenged once I removed myself as a potential rival. I am pleased to see it developing as I hoped."

"And the templars who came with you?"

"Some wished to continue serving the Chantry and end the war, as I did."

Some of the templars who terrorized Kirkwall were now part of the Inquisition; lovely. "Did very many come with you?"

"Only a dozen. Many went to the Spire. They were eager to leave Kirkwall."

And the scene of their crimes. "And some brought their families?"

"Those who had them, yes. I couldn't leave them behind."

It would be difficult to hate him if the man insisted on acting like a person instead of a templar; a good thing she was up to the task. "And the child for whom you had the sword and shield made?"

Ser Rutherford's eyes were haunted. He was a lyrium addict -- all templars were -- but self-recrimination and regret were stronger drugs yet and on the verge of swallowing him whole. "He is having nightmares, and I hoped arming him would give him the courage to fight them."

"Nightmares because of the Breach?" she asked.

He shook his head. "His father was killed when you opened and reclosed the Breach. The pride demon."

Her stomach plummeted to her feet and she fought a wave of nausea. She remembered the chaos of that day well and the soldiers who willingly put themselves between her and the demon to buy her enough time to close the Breach. It never occurred to her templars might be among their number. And this one left a child behind.

"I'm sorry, Commander. I wish I could have closed it faster. If I had, maybe -- "

"He knew the risks, Herald," he said gently. "He undertook them in the hopes he would make the world a safer place for his son." He took a step closer, and she smelled his cologne: something woodsy, like oakmoss and elderflowers. This close, she was aware of his size and wondered if his skin was warm to the touch and where else he might be scarred …

She took a quick step back, and he frowned.

"Lady Trevelyan?"

"I have something pressing I just remembered. I am ... sorry to hear of this man's --"

"Markus," he said.

"Markus’ death. I wish ... I wish I could have done something to prevent his death." If she were faster, more accomplished or a more powerful mage, perhaps this man would still live and she wouldn't feel sick over the death of a Kirkwall templar.

"His family will be comforted to hear it."

Ser Rutherford’s skin would taste of salt after his exertions. It would be damp, even slick … She was disturbed to be thinking such things when she should be offering condolences. She took another step back. "If it will give them some small measure of comfort, then please tell them so."

"I will."

"Good evening." She didn't run away. She walked away; quickly.

"Good evening, Herald," he called.

She wasn't running away.

She wasn't.

##

"Corporal Vale, Commander." He stood straight and proud, snapping a crisp salute.

Cullen returned it.

People crowded behind Vale. There were approximately sixty of them, young and old, men and women, and maybe a third of them were suitable for military service.

"These are ... well, they're an irregular company, but every one of them has a skill that will be valuable to the Inquisition or can swing a sword. And you won't find anyone anywhere more dedicated to the Inquisition -- every one of them owes their lives or their family's lives to the Herald."

Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Is that right?"

"Yes." Vale gestured to the people around him. "She brought a healer for the sick, she fed the hungry and she saved them from exposure and cold."

Cullen wanted to laugh, confronted with the unexpected fruits of her efforts. She wouldn't miss the chance to rub it in, either. He instructed the skilled laborers to report to Threnn and Josephine and turned the rest over to a lieutenant, gratified several had experience, while assuring Vale he would inform the Herald the promised recruits arrived.

Reports of the Herald assisting the common folk weren't unusual, despite Lady Trevelyan's imperious attitude. Cullen tried to rein her in, lest she spend all her time running trivial errands, but she hadn't taken it well.  He should have routed the request through Leliana or Josephine. She didn't care to take orders from a former templar, and she found him especially repellent.

She had been furious and demanded to know whether she reported to him.

"Do you seek to command me?" she had asked.

She didn't know what she asked. The idea of commanding -- dominating -- her kept him awake into the small hours. He dreamed of her when he finally fell asleep. It wasn't a nightmare, surprisingly, but it was ... lurid. Cullen doubted Lady Trevelyan would beg him for anything, but remembering the dream stirred him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, berating himself. She was the Prophet's chosen and deserving of reverence. She would disapprove of appearing in his fantasies. She didn't just hate him, she loathed him. His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. He was bewitched by a woman who despised him.

He would not go to her now, not with these impure thoughts that refused to leave him. Cullen changed direction and headed for his tent instead. He would take this opportunity to go over as many reports as he could manage before the headache building at the base of his skull took him.

No one would see him shaking from withdrawal in his tent.

He stood behind his camp desk, because he did not care for the small camp stools. He wasn't convinced they would bear his weight, even in the lighter armor he now wore. Leaving behind the heavy, all-encompassing templar armor was a relief. It never occurred to him how restricting and clumsy it was -- or how anonymous with full armor and helm.

He managed to get through a week's worth of spy reports. He put off Josephine's reports. He had no patience for the subterfuges and feints of politics. Cullen could manage politeness and withhold information if appropriate or necessary, but he hated lies, possibly because he couldn't lie well himself. Some counted that a flaw.

His throat was dry and parched and his thirst immense, but his hands shook so half the contents spilled on the ground when he reached for the water dipper. He drank anyway, closing his eyes, which felt like they were coated in hot oil. His head throbbed with his heartbeat. Even the little light leaking in around the edges of the tent walls sent steely stabs of pain through his head.

He knelt, bowed his head and recited the Chant. It was familiar repetition, something other than the pain to focus on. He endured Kinloch, the violation of body and mind. He saw his brothers and sisters slaughtered, or worse, fallen to demons and made thralls. He survived the Gallows and becoming wholly Meredith’s creature, only finding himself again after he committed such atrocities that would haunt him for the rest of his life. This was nothing, only a passing pain.

Cullen didn't know how long he knelt, praying. He lost track of where he was in the Chant and restarted several times. He began to sway ever-so-slightly with the rhythm of his words.

When the tent flap was lifted, the flood of light seared his eyes and he raised a trembling hand to shield them. She was framed against the dazzling light, a merciful darkness against the crushing brilliance, the hand holding the edge of the canvas sending up green sparks. She looked much as she did when she came out of the Breach.

"Ser Rutherford, you did not answer when I called --"

He slumped over, turning his face away from the light.

 

Cullen lost time.

 

She cradled his head in her lap and dribbled water down his throat.

"Foolish, stubborn man," she muttered. "You ought to go to the healers, but, no, not you, not the indomitable Ser Rutherford. Can't let anyone think you get sick like ordinary people."

He didn’t feel indomitable. An all-consuming weariness dragged him down. He didn't open his eyes or speak.

She cleaned his face with a wet cloth, and he groaned with the relief the cool water brought him. Then she dribbled more water between his lips. It tasted strange, medicinal, and she stroked his throat to make him swallow. He focused on the feel of her fingers on his flesh. He shouldn’t, but he was weak.

"Lady Trevelyan," he said. "It is only a passing moment of weakness. I will be fine presently."

She went very still, then spoke. "Do be quiet, Ser Rutherford, you're delirious." She gave him more water and he gulped it down.

His eyelids were inexplicably heavy.

She pressed a cold compress to the back of his neck. "Fool," she said under her breath. "Go to sleep now. You will feel much better when you wake."

His limbs were leaden and he couldn't move. She fed him a sleeping potion. He wanted to tell her it would prevent him from escaping the nightmares, but the darkness swallowed him.

 

The nightmares came, and Desire wore the Herald's face. "You are a fool," it said as it bore down on him.

He could not escape into wakefulness.

 

Cullen woke to birdsong and soft morning light creeping beneath the tent's edge. He was in his cot, a blanket tucked around his waist. He still wore his gambeson, although it was open at the throat.  His armor was on its stand. He sat up swiftly, then braced himself for the pain. It didn't come. He rolled his shoulders, taking stock of the aches and pains, but ... nothing. Pushing the blanket aside, he stood and dressed.

She had help. Even unarmored, he was too heavy for her to move.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe it was part of his dream, but he couldn't shake the feeling he fell asleep while she stroked his hair. The idea was absurd.

He ate quickly, messengers coming and going. The entire camp was up and moving, and there was work to be done.

Cullen was on his way to the chantry when Cassandra caught up with him.

"Stay out of the Herald's way today," she said. "She's furious with you."

"What have I done to upset her?" He didn't dose her with a sleeping draught and Maker knew what else. Cullen even forgave her for drugging him without a by-your-leave. Not that he told her, but he would. If she inquired. Or cared.

"You had an episode last night. Do you remember?"

He nodded. "Did you tell her I am no longer taking lyrium?"

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "No. You must tell her. And soon. She believed you were ill."

"That's not so far from the truth. I suppose it is all over camp this morning."

Cassandra shook her head. "No, she was circumspect. It did take the two of us to get you off the ground. I told her the next time she gives you a sleeping draught, she should make sure you're abed first."

"No more sleeping draughts."

Cassandra did a double-take at the harshness of his tone, but her eyes widened with understanding and she nodded. "No more." She was quiet for a moment. "The Herald doesn't know --"

He cut her off with a gesture. "I don't wish to speak of it."

"You will have to, and soon."

He ignored her. No good could come of admitting his weakness to the Herald. He would go to her with the task accomplished.

Cassandra shrugged. "She is furious you pushed yourself so." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a slow, sly smile stretching her mouth. "She was beside herself over your condition."

Cullen shook his head. That didn't sound like Lady Trevelyan. She wasn't hot-headed, but icily reserved, although she did direct a fair share of venom his way.

"Speaking of ... " Cassandra said.

The Herald was coming down the hill and changed direction when she saw them. Even from here, Cullen saw her eyes were dark with an approaching storm. Her eyes were more expressive than she realized -- or he was good at reading her.

"Cassandra," she said as she reached them.

"Herald," Cassandra returned.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to Ser Rutherford privately."

Cassandra gave him a sympathetic glance, but wasted no time in excusing herself.

Cullen noticed he wasn’t given a choice in the matter. He offered Lady Trevelyan his arm, and she gave him a long, searching look before she took it. They continued down the hill.

"I have some powders for you," she said after several moments.

"Nothing for sleeping," he said firmly.

"May I ask why?"

"If there is an attack or emergency in the middle of the night, I must wake quickly and completely." It was true enough.

"I see." They walked into the wooded area near the pond. "Then at least take the ones for fever. And headaches."

Accepting them didn't mean he would take them. "As it pleases you, my lady."

"Do you know what doesn't please me, ser?"

"Any number of things, I would imagine."

She gave him a sharp look. "Finding you collapsed, unresponsive and feverish. What were you thinking?"

That he wanted to be his own man and leave behind the mistakes of his past. "I apologize if you found it unpleasant, Lady Trevelyan. I will not let it happen again."

She looked at him for a long time, as if she were searching for something in his face. "See that it doesn't, ser. The Inquisition needs you." She thrust a wrapped parcel at him, then turned and strode off without glancing back to see if he accepted her gift or let it tumble to the ground.

This strange behavior didn't fit his understanding of her. He understood how to deal with Lady Trevelyan when she was coldly disdainful and when she was furious, but he didn't understand how to deal with her kindness, no matter how he tried.


	3. Cullen Smolders & Evelyn Searches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Evelyn are annoyed at one another. Yet, also strangely turned-on.

They walked side-by-side in the back of the group, comfortable with the silence. Sera and Bull walked ahead, planning foolishness. It made Evelyn smile, and it was good to be able to smile, even with the hole in the sky casting a ghastly green glow over the countryside.

“Solas?” she said.

“Yes, Herald?”

“You cared for me after I came out of the Fade.”

“Yes. There were many questions, but no clear answers. And fewer than we hoped since you awoke.”

She sighed. Evelyn could remember nothing of the end of the Conclave, and it bothered her. She should be able to provide some insight. It surprised her Cassandra so readily took her at her word on the matter, given their beginning.

“I do not mean to imply criticism, Herald.”

“I know, Solas. I am simply frustrated with my inability to remember. I could have seen something important, something that would give us an advantage, but … ”

“I understand.”

“I trained in memorization at the Circle. I should be able to remember something!”

“There may be any number of reasons for the lapse in your memory.” He offered her a hand as they scrambled up the hillside. “Perhaps your memory was magically wiped.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to hide a frown. Such things were possible, but … “It would require blood magic to affect my mind.” She wanted no more dealings with blood magic.

“It is a possibility. It also is possible your mind is shielding you from some trauma.” He planted his staff and leaned against it. “Or your injuries damaged your memory. Finally, you may have been knocked unconscious immediately and there is nothing to remember.”

“I just feel there should be something … ”

He nodded. “You are doing as much as you can. No one can ask any more, and perhaps you shouldn’t, either.”

Evelyn glanced up the hillside. Bull and Sera waited further up -- the two of them were examining one of Sera’s arrows and she suspected they had poisoned it -- and were out of earshot. “Solas, did I … did I have anything with me when I came out of the Fade? It would have looked like a necklace or a very small vial.”

Solas adjusted his grip on his staff. “Do you mean a phylactery, Herald?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you know about them, since you’re … ”

“Since I’m an apostate?” He smiled. “I have, from time to time, needed to pass as a Circle mage. I’ve made myself familiar with many of the more well-known aspects. I didn’t think mages had access to phylacteries at the Circles.”

“They don’t. This one was mine. My mentor obtained it and delivered it to me because there was a particular templar searching for me. He was dead by that time, but she didn’t know that. She didn’t want him to use it against me. He had tried to harm me before.”

“A resourceful and cunning woman. I wish she were with us now.”

She shared that wish. Evelyn lost more than a mentor at the conclave -- Brenna was as much a mother to her as the woman who bore her. She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. “She was extraordinary. But, my phylactery -- did you see it? I am … troubled … by its loss.”

Solas frowned. “As am I. Such a thing could be used to harm you or the Inquisition. But, no, I didn’t see it. I will search for it. Many of my friends were driven from the area by the Breach, but I will ask those who remain.”

It hadn’t occurred to her to search the Fade as well. Perhaps there was hope after all. “Thank you, Solas.”

He inclined his head in a subtle bow. “You are most welcome. Although, you may want to ask Commander Cullen as well. It was Inquisition soldiers who first found you.”

“I will do that.” She ignored her quickening pulse. She wasn’t searching for legitimate reasons to speak to Ser Rutherford.

She wasn’t.

##

“Ser Rutherford, if I might have a moment of your time?” The Herald strode up to him, staff in hand, her long leather coat still stained from her travels and her braid unraveling. Even travel-worn, she was graceful, and Cullen reminded himself not to stare.

“Of course, Herald. If you don’t mind accompanying me to the field hospital, there are some matters there that require my attention.”

“Visiting the wounded again?”

“Among other things.” He glanced down at her, but her expression was placid. Mages frequently cultivated such expressions. There were some templars who punished mages for impertinence because they didn't care for the mage's expression. Cullen tried not to allow such templars to work directly with mages at the Gallows, but there were some who were good at either hiding their nature or intimidation.

“You manage to surprise me from time to time, Ser Rutherford,” she said.

Cullen wasn’t sure whether he should apologize or be pleased. She gave him little to extrapolate from, either by body language or tone. “That isn’t my intention, Herald.” Her perfume was light, sweet. He wasn’t familiar enough with such things to determine what scent she wore.

“Oh, to be sure, Ser Rutherford, but you manage it all the same.”

“I will try not to surprise you in the future,” he said. They walked through a stand of pine trees, and he pressed a branch back so it wouldn’t strike her.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a good surprise.” She paused. “It occurs most frequently when you behave like a person instead of a templar.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Templars _are_ people.”

She was silent; at least she didn’t scoff. The Herald disliked templars. It was understandable, given her background, and familiar, given his, but it dismayed him. He hoped if they worked together long enough, she would see him as more than a templar, perhaps even as a friend.

Although, perhaps that would be worse than disinterest or dislike. At least this way, he wouldn’t fall prey to false hopes. He had to keep it firmly in mind: They were false hopes.

“You needed something?” he asked after the silence stretched too long.

“I wanted to ask you about the immediate aftermath of the Conclave,” she said. “There’s so much I don’t know. So much I don’t remember. Your soldiers found me, didn’t they?”

Cullen didn’t like to revisit memories of the explosion. Despondency followed confusion and panic. There was a good deal of false hope that day as well -- hope that they would find more alive. “Yes. You escaped unscathed.”

She turned her marked hand so he could see the play of lights and marring on the palm. “Unscathed?”

“Not unscathed, then. Alive,” he amended.

“Can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding my rescue?”

He frowned. “There isn’t much to tell, Herald. You walked out of the Breach. The silhouette of a woman was briefly visible behind you, but she disappeared abruptly. You collapsed and couldn’t be roused. You were brought back here, to the healers.”

“To be imprisoned.”

“And that as well, yes.”

She did a double-take, her eyes widening. “You’ve surprised me again, ser.”

Cullen took Lady Trevelyan’s hand and helped her step over a patch of melted snow and mud. Her hands were strong, but soft. She made no protest. “We needed any information you had. We were willing to go to extreme measures to obtain it. Perhaps not as extreme as you were originally led to believe … ”

She stopped and looked up at him. Cullen’s heart hammered in his throat. It occurred to him they were alone. Perhaps this was a ruse so they could speak privately.

“I’m so glad you only meant to frighten me, not kill me,” she said. Her tone was sweet, but her eyes were chilly. “Templar typical.”

False hopes; Cullen’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “We didn’t know if you were friend or foe, Lady Trevelyan. We needed to know who you were and what was happening. We had only questions and no answers.”   

“And did you get your answers while I was in chains?” She raised her chin in defiance.

Cullen sighed. He didn’t mean to argue with her, and he wondered why they always were at odds. “Some. Not all.”

“And how did you go about finding those answers?”

“Cassandra interrogated you. You know this.” He became irritated himself. It wasn’t his choice to clap her in irons. He argued against it, but Cassandra was Void-bent on answers. Yet, she scorned his overtures and became fast friends with Cassandra.

“No, before that.”

“Before that, Solas and Adan tended to you.” He didn’t understand what she wanted from him.

“No, when your soldiers found me.” She shook her head. “You’re so deliberately dense. You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I am doing no such thing.” Irritation morphed into anger. He received an excellent education from the Chantry and took the opportunity to improve on it in the Circle libraries. He was by no means unintelligent.

“What happened when I came out of the Fade?”

“I told you,” he growled. “You were brought here. Solas and Adan tended to your wounds.”

“And what was done with my things?”

Cullen blinked. Her things were ragged robes, a scorched and useless staff … “Your clothing and staff were destroyed by the blast. They were discarded.”

She turned away, but not before he saw her shock and despair. He felt a stab of guilt, but reminded himself he did nothing untoward.

“There was nothing … unusual or small?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but her head was bowed and shoulders hunched.

He dared touch her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Lady Trevelyan, I am sorry if you had some sentiment attached to those things.”

She shrugged his hand off. “Was there nothing else, ser? No jewelry or trinket that caught a soldier’s eye, perhaps?” She spun around to face him, her long coat slapping his knees and her hair sliding across his chest.

The blood ran out of his face and his hackles rose at the insinuation. “My soldiers would do no such thing without orders,” he said. “If you will tell me what you are looking for -- ”

“It is none of your business!” She drew herself up to her full height.

She regularly treated him with unwarranted condescension, and Cullen was tired of it. “You are a haughty little thing,” he said.

The Herald raised her chin and glared. “We’ll see how little I am when I put you on your ass with a fireball!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a mage hurled a fireball at my head.”

“I can imagine!”

"Are you two quite done?" Cassandra asked.

Cullen whirled around; he had not heard her approach. "Seeker."

Cassandra eyes widened in shock as she looked over his shoulder.

Feeling foolish, he turned completely around for a second time, but saw nothing other than Lady Trevelyan taking advantage of his distraction to retreat into the village walls.

"Is something wrong?" he asked Cassandra.

"The Herald just stuck her tongue out at you." She sounded impressed, but he could hardly imagine why. "Like a child."

"The Herald?"

"Yes."

"Stuck her tongue out? At me?"

"Yes."

" _The Herald of Andraste_?"

Cassandra frowned. "Do we have more than one herald in the camp?"

He opened his mouth, and she held a hand up in a stop gesture. "No, do not answer that question. It was rhetorical. What have you done to irritate her now? _Do_ answer that question."

He felt a surge of irritation himself -- why did she assume _he_ was at fault? -- but tamped it down with rather more ease than he managed with Lady Trevelyan. "We had a disagreement."

"And?"

He sighed. "I called her haughty."

"And?"

"And she threatened to throw a fireball at my head," he bit off the words.

“It serves you right, Commander. She isn’t some initiate you can scowl into obedience.”

“I wasn’t -- ”

She raised her eyebrows.

He sighed. “I won’t allow her to bait me again, Seeker.”  

“See that you don’t. She probably _will_ throw a fireball at your head.”

He rubbed the back of his neck as she walked away. Cullen couldn’t stop thinking about how the light of battle in Lady Trevelyan’s eyes or how she tilted that stubborn chin of hers when she was angry.

A smile played around the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head. Maker, but he was such a fool.

##

The wind tore at Evelyn’s hair. A storm brewed, and snowflakes twirled through the air, hiding Haven behind a glittering curtain.

She made the best decision she could, given the circumstances -- including being freshly tormented by a demon -- and now they second-guessed her. If they wanted their opinions to be weighed, then they damn well should have went to Therinfall.

Remembering the corrupted templars, she hugged herself and shivered, staring out at the mountains that cradled Haven. Ordinary templars were bad enough, but to add magical corruption … that took a bad thing and made it worse. And even templars didn’t deserve what was done to those men and women.

“Cassandra is giving us all an earful,” Ser Rutherford said.

She turned as he strode out of the storm, a disembodied voice one moment and unwelcome company the next. Snow dusted his fur pauldrons and golden hair, and he stomped his feet and blew on his gloved hands, his breath a feathery plume in the cold air.

Evelyn drew her coat closer around her. She knew one of them would be sent to fetch her, if only because they didn’t want their precious mark to disappear. She only was surprised at who they sent. She said nothing, because she was unsure what would come out of her mouth.

“She was right,” Ser Rutherford said. “A decision needed to be made, and your position with the Inquisition isn’t official, but you’ve become a leader and a public face and voice for us. We’ve asked you to do much on our behalf, and we should have seen this coming.”

He managed to surprise her more and more often, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. “Seen what coming, Ser Rutherford?” Maker help him if he accused her of overstepping.

“That you would use the authority you’ve earned.”

He took a step toward her, and she held herself still, not taking the corresponding step back she wanted. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was more afraid of herself and her own feelings -- even when she meant to be distant, she felt otherwise. Evelyn would never achieve the calm befitting a senior enchanter. Her temper was too fierce. Brenna must have despaired.

“That I’ve earned?” She tilted her head to see his face, since he was a good foot taller than her.

“You’ve earned the people’s trust and devotion.” He stood between her and the worst of the winds. “I read the reports. You go out of your way to help them. Of course they love you.” There was a strange warmth in his eyes.

Evelyn looked away, before she began to think about things better left alone. “That doesn’t give me any special authority.”

“The truest authority comes from those you serve. I have seen those who seize it with force, and trust me when I say it is best for it to come from regard and admiration, not fear.”

The snow closed around them. They could be a few dozen feet from the village gates or they could be miles away. It was strangely intimate. “As you say, ser.” She needed to get away from him, but she wanted … well, never mind what she wanted.

“You’ve spoken of my ability to surprise you, Herald, but I confess that you’ve surprised me this time. May I ask why you chose to ally us with the templars?” He cocked his head. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

He wouldn’t; it was what he wanted all along. “Because I can trust templars to kill me, if nothing else.”

Shock widened his eyes and left his face slack. “My lady?”

She turned her hand so the mark was visible. “I don’t know what it is, how it works or what it is meant for. I only know it has a connection to the Fade. You know how dangerous such things are for a mage.”

He shook his head mutely.

“Yes, you do. You’re a templar.” She knew it was denial, not ignorance, but she wouldn't think about what his denial meant. “I have the same questions about the Breach: What is it? How did it occur? What is it for? The two things together don’t bode well. And I am to join them. What will happen to me? What will I become? If I become an abomination … mages might not stop me. I might turn them as well. Templars know how to deal with such things.”

“My lady, no.” He took her hands. “These things you fear won’t come to pass.”

She allowed his touch. She shouldn’t, but, Maker, sometimes she was frightened and weak. “I hope not,” she said. “I hope not.”

“I won’t allow anything to happen to you.” It was whispered, fierce and far too close to a confession that would be disastrous for both of them.

She could well imagine Ser Rutherford attempting to glower and intimidate the Breach into submission and the thought made her smile. “I am reassured, ser.” She looked up, still smiling, only to catch her breath. His eyes were the color of warm honey and good whiskey.

Evelyn had the appalling urge to stroke his stubbled cheek and trace the scar on his lip. She pulled her hands from his and clenched them into fists in an effort to keep them to herself. She closed her eyes, struggling to control her breathing. She wanted to grab him by that ridiculous fur, pull him down and press her mouth to his, her body to his …

"Lady Trevelyan?" Snow crunched as he took a step forward.

She smelled his hair tonic, the oil in his leathers, his soap ... even the crushed mint on his breath. "Do not." She swallowed.

"Are you unwell?"

She was infatuated, and it snuck up on her. Evelyn choked back a laugh. "I'm fine." She opened her eyes, but he was too close, looking down at her with a concerned expression. She stepped back, needing distance. Evelyn slipped in the snow and nearly fell in her haste.

He grabbed her upper arms, steadying her. "You seem ... agitated." He nervously licked his lips, and her gaze was drawn to his mouth and held there as surely as if he laid an enchantment on her.

"Agitated?" she repeated breathlessly.

His lips parted, his pupils dilated and his pulse throbbed in his throat. "Yes. I ... you seem ... distracted as well."

Her gaze was drawn down to that pulsing vein, and she imagined licking it, gently biting it ... She looked away. Evelyn was a few seconds from doing something unfortunate. He likely would react badly to aggression, given his torment by Desire. She shrugged free of his hold and stepped back, putting distance between them.

"Good afternoon, Commander." She was grateful her voice was calm and steady.

"Lady Trevelyan?" Damn the man; he sounded disappointed.

She didn't reply, only lengthened her stride as she hurried away.

##

Lady Trevelyan was in his dreams again last night, so Cullen wasn't surprised to be summoned to a war council. His responses were more curt and irritable than he would have liked, but he had difficulty looking her in the eye. He caught himself staring at her mouth at one point, remembering the dream. Leliana asked him a question, and he stumbled and snarled through it.

He was relieved when the meeting ended and he could return to the training grounds. He relaxed as soon as he heard the ring of swords. This was something he understood. He could deal with a raw recruit who didn’t know which end of a sword to hold or an aggressive soldier.

Cassandra finished running her own drills -- and he caught many of his soldiers paying attention to the statuesque seeker, instead of what they were doing, and made them sorry in short order -- and walked among the recruits, offering corrections and praise.

Finally, Cassandra drew even with him. He suspected it was her goal all along.

“You were short with the Herald today,” she said.

“She and I have a difficult relationship.”

“You do bring out her … emotional side, Commander,” Cassandra said.

“She hates me,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say she hates you, but you do inspire strong emotions.”

“What does that mean, Seeker?”

She smiled -- and it wasn’t a kind smile, but reminiscent of a cat who got into the cream and enjoyed it very much. “I believe I am going to enjoy watching this unfold.”

“Watching what unfold?”

She only shook her head and walked away.

He would swear she was laughing to herself.

##

“You must admit the mage rebellion was, if not unfounded, then poorly conceived,” Lady Vivienne said. She stood, one hip cocked, arm bent at the elbow, palm open and up. She could have been posing for a sculptor or painter. Vivienne was effortlessly graceful -- and ambitious and opinionated.

Vivienne was honest about her motivations, fierce in battle and devoted to restoring order, even if Evelyn didn’t agree on the reformation of the Circles. Vivienne also was the only Circle mage of significant standing in the Inquisition other than Evelyn herself.

Evelyn was lonely for a peer who understood her. Vivienne filled that need, and they didn’t need to agree on every point -- their debates were like being back in the Circle, before it all fell apart …

“You don’t think we should have protested the abuses?”

“Protested? Certainly. Dissolved the circles? No. Those who voted to do so only thought of themselves.”

“They weren’t thinking of the abuses mages endured under templar rule?” Evelyn asked.

“I’ve no doubt they were thinking of the abuses _they_ endured, but they weren’t thinking of much else. No one thought about would be responsible for the Tranquil. They were left to fend for themselves. We know how that turned out -- the Venatori slaughtered them to make Oculara.

“And what about mages like Minaeve? Those for whom the Circle tower is a sanctuary from those who would harm them for nothing more than an accident of birth that gave them a connection to the Fade? There are far more mages who have little talent for battle than there are those who do, but those who hate mages make no distinction. And, make no mistake, Herald, the ordinary people of Thedas have been taught to hate and fear us.

“There were no contingency plans to protect those unfit for life outside the Circle or unable or unwilling to defend themselves.” Vivienne’s voice was low and fierce. “Yes, for a powerful few, the dissolution of the Circles was a welcome thing, but not for all, and those most affected had no vote.”

“Change was necessary,” Evelyn said. In the face of Vivienne’s passion, her protests seemed weak, but _something_ had to change. It wasn’t fair to imprison mages for crimes they had yet to commit, and the templars were out of control.

“At what cost? Ask those who sought the war, and they may think it fair, but ask those whose blood bought it, and they might not agree.” Lady Vivienne’s smile was bitter and sharp enough to cut. “But the dead write no histories.”

“The templars need to learn restraint,” Evelyn said. “Mages deserve freedom. Once you prove yourself during a Harrowing, you are unlikely to become possessed. In fact, templar abuses increase the risk of blood magic and possession.” She understood that risk intimately. Evelyn clenched her marked hand. Maker help them all if she became an abomination.

“Do templars learn restraint in war? And mages are free now -- free to run and hide and free to die at the hands of rogue templars and frightened commoners. We must re-establish order, Herald, or many more will die.”

“Lady Vivienne, you had a different experience than most Circle mages,” Evelyn said. “Most of us weren’t fortunate enough to have apartments at the imperial palace and a wing of a ducal palace to ourselves. Most share a dormitory and have little privacy. We are locked in from night until dawn like naughty children.

“Moving from one part of the tower to another requires an escort. If there isn’t a templar available, you are simply out of luck. Maker help you if the templars catch you wandering without leave. There are _prisons_ with less restrictions on movement.

“Leaving the tower is all but impossible for everyone but the most senior enchanters. We certainly aren’t receiving invitations to balls or hosting salons.

“And that doesn’t begin to touch on templars’ attitudes and behavior toward us. We are treated as prisoners, not as courtiers, yet we are innocent of any wrongdoing. How can you advocate for such a system?”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “My dear, I had privileges, but I earned them. I made the most of any opportunity I was given. Nothing fell into _my_ lap. Now, when the Circles were dissolved, where did you go? Back home to your parents’ estate? Not every mage is a wealthy noble, Lady Trevelyan.

“A good many sold their abilities to the highest bidder, because they didn’t know how to live outside their towers. Becoming the pet mage of some minor lordling with pretensions to power won't endear anyone to the masses, darling.

“If the Circles aren’t re-formed, where will mages new to their abilities turn? There were some in the Circles who never would have held a book, let alone learned how to read, without the intercession of the Chantry. Not everyone was born with your privileges. Mages may not have the freedom of movement they wish, but they are safe -- safe from those who would harm them and safe from themselves.”

“The Chantry taught the common people to be afraid of us,” Evelyn protested.

“And foolish mages allowed the Chantry to capitalize on that fear by succumbing to possession and blood magic,” Vivienne said. “There are dangers, and they won’t disappear because we wish it.”

“The Chantry encourages fear of us to keep us under their collective thumb.” Evelyn thought it, but never said it out loud -- it smacked of heresy. “We are nothing more than a weapon to them. How many Exalted Marches would have been successful if not for mages? They want to keep us in servitude, and they use the people’s fear to do it.”

Vivienne nodded. “On that much, we can agree.”

“Then how can you support reforming the Circles?”

“Because it is best for the majority.” Vivienne sighed. “The Circle provides safety, an education, the necessities. There are fewer abominations because of them, and they ask little in return.”

“Only our freedom,” Evelyn said bitterly.

“You mourn the freedom you might have had as a member of the nobility, but most mages wouldn’t have had those freedoms. The freedoms you long for cost gold, social standing and a position of power. Nothing is free; everything has a price.”

“Maybe that is too high a price to pay.”

“That is a decision you make for yourself, not for others,” Vivienne said sharply.

“Mages aren’t _allowed_ to make decisions.”

“No? Then what do you call the dissolution of the Circles and the mage-templar war? This must _end_ , Herald.”

Evelyn already carried too many lives on her conscience. They needed to stop the bloodshed as soon as possible -- that was something she and Vivienne could agree on.

“Yes, the war must end, but what happens afterward? That is still up for debate.” Evelyn only hoped there were mages left to do so, when it was said and done.

##

Cullen’s muscles trembled with fatigue, but he still drove himself on, sparring with a training dummy now that his soldiers were at dinner. He lunged, slashed, then parried an imaginary blow.

The Herald asked about his vows.

And made a special point to ask about chastity vows, and whether he made any. He couldn't think of a single reason why she would ask such a thing. Perhaps she wanted to discomfort him. If so, it worked.

She asked about his vows.

He was uncharitable. Perhaps she wanted to know him better, and her new interest in his life as a templar was an olive branch. She may have decided adversity between them did not benefit the Inquisition. She was as dedicated to their cause as any of them, despite her protests she was an unwilling member of their company.

He thrust between the ribs of his imaginary enemy and twisted his sword with a sharp turn of his wrist.

Those vows, in particular …

Perhaps he gave himself away, and she knew he was enthralled with her. This could be her way of indicating his feelings were unchaste and unworthy.

She asked about templar vows.

She might be smitten with one of the Inquisition’s templars and wanted to know if their vows precluded a relationship. He imagined her in a relationship with one of the templars under his command, while he watched from afar.

He took the head off a training dummy.

Why had she asked him?


	4. Cullen Regrets & Evelyn Relives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares everywhere. And some of them can't be escaped, because they're not nightmares, they're reality.

"Every overture is rejected," Josephine said. "Very polite thank-yous for the gifts and vague not-quite promises to everything else. Allying with the templars made this ... difficult. At least on the surface. I suspect they don’t have any intention on negotiating with us in good faith."

It must be bad for Josephine to admit even that much.

She turned to Cullen. "Perhaps you have a suggestion, Commander?"

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the map again. Nothing had changed. A beginning headache throbbed behind his eyes.

"Is it possible?" Josephine asked.

He grimaced. "Not with a direct assault, Lady Ambassador." Cullen didn’t want to give that answer. He wanted to present a workable plan to Lady Evelyn when she returned, but there was a reason Redcliffe survived the Blight: Surrounded by water on three sides and attached to mainland Ferelden by a narrow spit of land, it was a natural fortress.

Cullen and Josephine looked at Leliana, who frowned at the map and tapped her cheek. If you weren't invited in or couldn't break down the front door, you could always try jimmying the back door.

"The problem isn't getting in," Leliana announced.

That was the crux of the problem in Cullen's opinion.

"And because so many rebel mages aren't familiar with one another, going unnoticed won't be a problem. If it were only the villagers, it would be hard to evade notice, but with so many strangers, they shouldn't spot my agents, either." She leaned over the map, moving a marker. "The problem is getting them out."

"Get in, open the gates, and our troops will do the rest," Cullen said.

"The gate is a natural choke point," Leliana said.

It was; Cullen grimaced. "If we used the trebuchets --"

"There will be too many casualties, among both the mages and the villagers," Josephine said.

Cullen looked at the map. Nothing changed. "Ideas?"

"There is a tunnel. From here --" Leliana tapped a spot on the map "-- to here." She pointed at another. "We'll get in there, and we can get them out that way, too, but only a few at a time. Alexius will eventually notice, unless we move them through continuously."

"Unless he has them guarded," Cullen said.

"If there aren't too many, my agents can neutralize them, but that would shorten our time frame."

Cullen moved pieces on the map. "A skirmish at the gates, to draw their attention. A larger force at the tunnel's exit, to take custody of and protect the mages. And a small force with your people as a rear guard when it becomes necessary."

Leliana nodded. "It could work. We will have to time it perfectly, but it could work. Perhaps have the Herald with the group attacking the gate? She will capture Alexius' attention."

Black spots ate at Cullen's vision, and he dug his fingers into the edge of the war table as he shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea to risk her. We need her to seal the Breach."

"Leliana's right," Josephine said. "The Herald's presence will lend it authenticity."

Cullen swallowed. "The Breach is our primary goal." Lady Trevelyan was more than a pawn to be manipulated.

"Then we will go once the Breach is sealed," Leliana said. "But no later. There are no whispers coming out of Redcliffe. I don't like it."

Cullen nodded slowly. He didn't like pitting Lady Trevelyan against Alexius, but he didn't see how it could be avoided -- or was any more dangerous than sealing the Breach. "Evacuate those most suited to our purposes, first," he said.

"The Herald won't like that," Josephine said. "She'll want to evacuate the elderly and children first."

"Are there many?" he asked.

Leliana grimaced. "More than you would think, and our supplies are already stretched thin. I agree with the Commander. Let us recruit those who can serve."

"How do you secure their services once they are free of Redcliffe?" Josephine said. "The Grand Enchanter won't be duped twice. If we rescue the elderly and children, the mages will view us more favorably. They also will need resources to care for them -- resources we can supply."

“Our supply lines --” Cullen said.

“Once Alexius’ mage forces are dispersed, it will be much easier for Arl Eamon to reclaim his holdings,” Josephine said. “I am confident he will be grateful, and even more so if we help him take it back.”

“Are we to go traipsing across the countryside, reinstating every noble with a hard luck story?” Cullen asked.

“Making friends -- allies -- would be helpful, Commander,” Leliana said.

Cullen rolled his shoulders. Everything was blurry around the edges. “If you and the Lady Ambassador think it best, Seneschal.” Perhaps the arl could lend them troops.

Leliana nodded. “We have a plan, then. We will present it to the Herald when she returns.”

Josephine’s quill was poised. “Will there be any trouble integrating the mages, Commander?”

“There are enough templars to keep the risk of possession to a minimum, but the Herald won’t appreciate any quasi-Circles.”

“Can we mitigate it?” Josephine asked.

Cullen nodded slowly, mentally drawing up lists of those who would be most suitable for the task and making plans. “Yes. There will be conflicts, but nothing we shouldn’t be able to handle.”

He hoped. Lady Trevelyan had a way of turning things on their head.

##

Evelyn kept her howl locked behind her teeth, but only barely.

Ser Rutherford fell to his knees, blood gushing from his throat and down his armor, soaking into his tabard, matting the fur pauldrons and spraying over his face. He crumpled, toppling forward. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear.

Envy, in Josephine's shape, calmly examined a knife, wet with blood.

Evelyn restrained herself, but only because Envy watched, making note of her reactions, so it could become her. The idea made her skin crawl, and she held on to that feeling. It was better than the wild grief that threatened to overwhelm her at the sight of him face-down in a pool of his blood. She went from fearing him to ... something else.

If she didn't best Envy, it would do this and worse, and everyone would think it was her.  

"Was that supposed to impress me?"

The demon raged and made dark promises, wearing Josephine's face.

Evelyn blessed her Circle training for teaching her to control her emotions. She didn’t know how much Envy guessed or knew. It was in her head. Maybe she gave away more than she realized.

She turned, and Envy stalked toward her, this time as Ser Rutherford. She wanted to recoil, but held herself still. It was foul, this thing wearing the faces of the Inquisition’s leaders.

"I am not your toy," it growled. It was Ser Rutherford's voice, but at the same time, it wasn't -- the underlying harmonics were harsh and wrong.

She suppressed a shiver at the thought that it plucked their faces and voices out of her head. Evelyn didn't want to think about what else it found in her head -- especially when it came to Ser Rutherford. If it took her seeming, what it would do to him ... he was pushed to the breaking point once by demons pretending to be another.

Steadfastly ignoring Envy's tantrum, she turned and walked into a fog that wove around her ankles like cats. The only light was cast by burning bodies, contorted in their death throes. Perhaps Envy took them from her memories of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She wanted to run, but she walked. This just was another kind of Harrowing. She survived it at the Circle, she would survive it now.

Envy lurched out of the shadows, still wearing Ser Rutherford's face, but this time, his eyes had a red sheen and his skin bulged with obscene red growths ... her gorge rose.

 

Evelyn sat up, chest heaving with suppressed sobs and hair in sweaty tangles. She kicked the blankets off and scrambled out of bed, almost falling. She needed air, right now. Evelyn stumbled toward the door, but stopped short. She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this.

She ran a brush through her hair and pulled on a long tunic, breeches and boots. She walked down to the pond's edge, drinking in the much-needed night air, doing her best impression of First Enchanter Brenna.

Thinking about Brenna still hurt. It might not ever stop hurting. The last time she saw her, it was at the Conclave. Brenna attended as a representative of the rebel mages. They spoke briefly, and Evelyn hadn’t time to ask Brenna how she obtained the phylactery. Now, she would never know.

She had not seen her phylactery since she came out of the Fade. The idea that someone might have it, could track her movements or use blood magic against her, gnawed at her. She had to find it.

She heard Ser Rutherford coming down the hill, and hated she knew even the sound of his footsteps. Evelyn wondered if he noticed her moving about camp himself or if he was alerted. It made no difference in the end.

"Lady Trevelyan." He stood beside her in parade rest. She didn't think he was aware he did it.

"Ser Rutherford." She did her best the exude an aura of impenetrable calm, but she suspected she had dark circle under her eyes.

"It's a nice evening," he offered.

A bitter wind whipped snow in their faces.

"It's early morning," she said.

"It's a nice morning."

She sighed. "Is there something you would have from me, ser?"

He frowned before he mastered his expression. The man was an open book. "You have not been resting well."

She felt a surge of irritation, but was confident it didn't show. “No, ser, I have not. But is there something I might do for you?”

“I would be pleased if you at least attempted to rest, Herald. I would not want to lose you because you were slowed or befuddled by lack of sleep. It would be an ignoble end for the Herald of Andraste.”

Another gust of wind tore at her, and she shivered. “ _Enchanter Evelyn_. I live to please, Ser Rutherford. And I would sleep if I could.”

“What keeps you from sleep, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She had to maintain distance from this man. He could hurt her, if she allowed him. “I would rather not discuss it.”

He nodded, hands folded over the pommel of his sword. “I sometimes have trouble sleeping myself.” Ser Rutherford hesitated. “Nightmares.”

She shivered, and this time, it wasn’t the winds howling off the water. “Yes, nightmares can make it hard to sleep.”

“You sound as if you have first-hand understanding.” Ser Rutherford looked out over the pond. He was not seeing the wind-swept hills and he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

Evelyn was surprised by the surge of pity that touched her. She could imagine he had nightmares. She knew little of his imprisonment, but she doubted any of it was pleasant. “I … I have been having nightmares about my encounter with Envy.”

His mouth twisted in a grimace. “I am sorry, my lady. I would spare you that if I could. I know … I know how difficult that can be.”

“Envy showed me what it would do if it became me, and into what it would transform the Inquisition.” Her voice was calm and steady -- she found it easiest to control her tone -- but she laced her fingers together to hide the minute shake.

“That was in your report, Herald. You needn't repeat it if it troubles you.”

“Concerned for me, Ser Rutherford?” She must stop poking at him. Aggravating templars -- especially this templar -- wasn't wise.

He crossed his arms and looked away. “I'm concerned about the wellbeing of all our agents.” Either he blushed or his cheeks were wind-chapped.

She had a wrenching moment of deja vu. The Templar Order had an overabundance of awkward blonds.

“Everything wasn't in the report,” she admitted. She shivered, and he stepped forward, his brows drawn together in a frown.

“You can't hold anything -- ” He shook his head. “Is it important?”

She fixed her gaze on a tree across the pond. “I put all I thought significant in the report. Envy ... It was in my head, and I don't know what it perceived or learned. My innermost thoughts exposed -- I couldn't. I couldn't put it in a report.” It must be her lack of sleep causing her to confide such things in him. He was a templar; he would use them against her. It was what they did.

He turned away from her. “I understand. Being exposed against your will, your own mind used against you ... I apologize, Herald.” He gripped the pommel of his sword so tightly that his leather gloves creaked.

A gust of wind drew a curtain of snow between them, and she swallowed a grimace. She was a fool; he was trapped by a desire demon for days, maybe weeks, and she mewled to him about less than an hour at the mercy of Envy -- and she had Cole's help as well.

Yet, he was apologizing to her. Templar apologies were outside her realm of experience. She didn't know how to react.

“It showed me all it would do, but even before that, it murdered you. I was helpless ... all I could do was watch you die.”

He was fascinated by the chantry rooftop. “Envy showed you that? And you chose not to include it? Why?”

“It bothered me.” It haunted her nightmares, and she didn't want to think about why it disturbed her so much.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was under the impression you tolerated me.”

“There is a vast difference between wanting someone dead and ... not having warm feelings toward them.” She was afraid some of her feelings were all too warm.

“I see.”

“If it had taken me, would anyone have noticed?”

“I should think so. Regardless of how successful Envy had been at mimicking you, it wouldn’t be able to close the rifts.”

“At least templars know how to handle possession.”

He winced. “May I escort you back to your quarters, Lady Trevelyan?”

“As it pleases you, Ser Rutherford.”

He allowed her to set the pace, but he was tense, obviously looking for threats, even inside the village walls. They did not speak, and the silence was oppressive. She didn’t know a templar who wouldn’t maintain their purpose was to hunt down maleficar and destroy abominations.

She was relieved when they reached her quarters. “Ser Rutherford?”

“Yes?”

“You _would_ do what was necessary, as any templar would.”

“You like to remind me I was once a templar -- ”

“There is no such creature as an ex-templar,” she said flatly.

The blood drained from his face. “I would do what was necessary. No matter the cost.”

She relaxed. “Thank you.”

He clapped a fist to his breastplate in a salute. “Pleasant dreams.” He turned on his heel and stalked into the darkness, leaving her wondering if he had meant it as an insult.

##

Every time Cullen would have questioned Meredith's ever-more extreme methods, another blood mage was discovered, and his concerns temporarily abated. And he didn’t want to question, to think about what he was doing. If he stopped to do that, then he was lost, empty armor and broken vows.

It never occurred to him her methods created blood mages. It never occurred how badly it could turn out when those as powerful, yet vulnerable, as mages felt they had no other choice. It never occurred to him Meredith would allow such abuses under her command -- under his command! -- when she kept such tight rein over all else. Now he allowed himself to look back, to think and wonder over his deliberate blindness. And it was bitter, to think of those mages who were abused and made Tranquil without cause and know he was responsible. He should have seen what went on, and there were so many things he shouldn't have taken at face value.

Templars were meant to guard mages, but they were to protect them, too. He failed to do that twice now, but he would not fail again.

He glanced over at the Herald, leaning on her staff and talking with Cassandra. She caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. He turned away and examined the ranks of Inquisition soldiers and templars who stood ready.

Cassandra crossed the rudimentary parade grounds. “It is time.”

Cullen snapped to attention. “They are ready, Seeker.” He pounded his breast plate with a clenched fist, and hundreds echoed his movement. The sound rolled across the valley.

“For the Inquisition!” It was the roar of hundreds of voices and Cullen’s fervent prayer.

The Inquisition marched.

 

They arrayed themselves around the still-smoking ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Cullen prowled up and down the formation, tense. He would not be in the heart of the temple, with Cassandra, Solas and the Herald. He wanted to snarl.

“You are needed elsewhere, Commander,” Cassandra had said. “If something goes wrong, then you and your troops must contain it.”

“She has told you what she fears,” Cullen said.

“Yes, and it isn’t unfounded.”

“Do you think her will so weak?” Anger rose in him, as futile as it had been in Kirkwall.

“No, but she doubts and that may be enough.”

Cullen looked away. “I would be there with all of you if this is the end.”

“No, even if we are lost, this can’t be the end,” Cassandra said.

“And I must be the one to continue on?”

“You are talented at surviving.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

Cassandra fixed him with a sharp look. “You will survive. That’s an order, Commander.”

Cullen bowed his head and saluted.

 

Cullen had a long list of regrets, but he never regretted stopping lyrium. Not until Ser Barris and the ranking templar officers fell in behind Cassandra and marched into the temple, while he was relegated to watch and wait outside. If he were still a templar, he would be by the Herald’s side, guarding her, keeping her safe -- the way a templar was meant to do.

Instead, he waited outside, uninformed and unneeded.

Templars’ abilities were linked to their strength of will; he had been talented. He gave it up, thinking his martial skills would be enough, but they weren’t. In the moment, he believed it would be worth it to be with her when she needed him most. The Herald needed him; he should be taking it.

The air crackled and sang with power, and those templars still with him looked to the sky in concert. Cullen only felt a ghost of the call they felt. The lyrium mostly was burned from his veins.

He didn’t know how to describe the power of the mark. He wanted to say it appeared as jade lightning, and it was close, but not exact. It cracked and whipped and sawed at the Breach. The templars stared, intense and watchful, feeling the pull of their fellows. Cullen was outside that fellowship now and felt the lack intently.

The Breach flared like an exploding star, filling the sky with sickly pale green light, and thick, choking dust billowed up from the ground, rolling outward like a wave from the epicenter of the temple. The Breach shrank and settled in on itself. A thin, but triumphant, cry rose from the temple.

Cullen wanted to rush into the temple to see if she was alive and unhurt.

He could not leave his troops, so he waited and prayed.

Cullen hoped this would be the last time he was left behind while true templars served, but he doubted.

 

The Herald stood apart from the celebrations all evening, while all others drank and danced. She smiled when called upon, but there was something closed off about her. She glanced at her marked hand occasionally, but kept it clenched at her side for the most part.

Cullen had little use for the festivities either. Closing the Breach was a hard-fought and much-needed victory. The Inquisition would gain stature and allies.

Still, they were no closer to unmasking those behind the Divine’s death. Justinia gave Cullen a second chance, and the least he could do was bring those who killed her to justice.

A larger threat loomed over Thedas, but let them dance and laugh for tonight. They earned it. There was more work to be done, beginning with the rescue of the rebel mages, but that could wait until morning.

“Your face is so long, it is as if we met defeat instead of earning victory,” Cassandra said.

Cullen shrugged. “I only think we shouldn’t spend too much time congratulating ourselves. Let the people enjoy this, but we need to look to the future and what else we need to accomplish.” He didn’t mention the Divine; her death hung heavy on Cassandra.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “You’re as glum as the Herald, but at least she’s trying to hide it.”

“Talk to her,” he suggested.

“Why don’t you?” she said.

Cullen stared at her for a full minute before she threw her hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Fine. I’ll speak to her, although I don’t see why you can’t.”

Cullen coughed. “We may have … argued earlier.”

“What could you possibly have argued about? And when did you find the time?”

“I’m talented at drawing her ire,” he said.

Cassandra sighed. “It’s not her ire you have to look out for -- it’s the fireballs.” She dusted herself off and squared her shoulders. “Wish me luck, Commander.”

“Good luck, Seeker.”

Cassandra marched off toward the Herald, and Cullen waited until she was gone before he made his way to the gates. Better for him to turn in early -- and hopefully unremarked -- than to stay and allow his brooding to spoil the party. Varric called to him, but Cullen waved him off and sought the shadows beyond the walls.

He wasn’t the only one. More than a few were expressing their enthusiasm over their victory in some of the more private -- and not-so-private -- nooks and corners.

Cullen retreated to the parade grounds, snow-dusted and gleaming under moonlight. But the parade grounds weren’t quite empty. The stranger the Herald brought back with her from Therinfall, the boy who called himself Cole, stood out of even the farthest reaches of the light from the bonfires, his head cocked, seemingly listening to the merriment within the village walls.

Cullen would have left him -- when Cole was about, he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword -- but the boy turned to him and smiled. “Do you hear them? They’re happy.”

“They have every reason to be.”

Cole turned his pale eyes on Cullen and examined him intently. “You miss her, too.”

Cullen stiffened, holding the hilt of his sword tight, but not drawing it -- not yet. “Who?”

“The woman with two names. Leliana’s friend.”

“The Divine. Yes. I owe her.” Cullen took a step back, scanning his surroundings for advantages and pitfalls. He didn’t like anyone messing about with his mind, Herald’s friend or not.

“Second chances.” Then the boy cocked his head as if he were listening again. “I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “Your eyes stick … like hers.”

“The Herald.”

“Fire under ice, fear under calm,” the boy said. “There is so much to fear, but herself most of all. Falling is so easy, and there is so much farther to fall now.”

Cullen was uncomfortable, being privy to the Herald’s private fears, but a dark part of him whispered Cole would have been an asset at the Gallows. Cole would have discovered incipient blood mages and revealed Meredith’s madness all the sooner. He quashed that voice, firmly and somewhat frantically. He was not the knight-captain anymore.

“You --” Cole didn’t finish whatever he meant to say -- and Cullen was relieved, he had no wish for the boy to look any deeper into him -- because Cullen held up his hand in a stop gesture.

“What is that?” He pointed to a line of torches that crested the shoulder of the mountain.

“Oh.” Cole’s eyes widened. “That’s not good. That’s not good at all.”

##

Evelyn ran harder than she ever ran before, even harder than she ran when that bear chased her across half the Hinterlands. Snow crunched under every step, and she kept her eyes on the path, lest she step on a dead mage -- or worse, an Inquisition soldier.

She saw too many familiar faces, people who trusted her and who celebrated their great victory only hours ago. How short was their triumph. They deserved more: more time to celebrate, a more capable leader and more life.

There were too many among the mages as well -- too young and too old. They were shock troops, their lives thrown away to test the Inquisition, to wear their soldiers down like water poured over stone. They weren’t fighters, but they had been frightened and driven.

She would have left in the morning for Redcliffe. She was too late before she even began.

So many of them all; her eyes burned and her throat hurt. She snarled. When she died, she hoped she took this Elder One with her -- if she had the chance. The Grand Enchanter was out there, and Evelyn knew she couldn’t hope to stand against her. Evelyn would die.

She looked over her shoulder. Cassandra, Cole and Varric kept pace behind her; they undoubtedly ran to their deaths. If she could make it to the trebuchet by herself, she would insist they go with Ser Rutherford and the others. She should have said something more to him, the last time they spoken, they had harsh words for each other …

A Venatori mage rounded the corner, and Evelyn swung her staff, crackling with flames, around. Cassandra unsheathed her sword, and Bianca thrummed as Varric sent bolt after bolt at the group hot on the first Ventori’s heels. Cole flickered in and out of sight, twin blades flashing in the firelight.  

There was no more time to think or regret. Now, there only was time to react and survive long enough to give the rest of them a chance to escape.

##

It was cold, and those who fled were unprepared. They were celebrating, not provisioning for a trek into the mountains. They weren’t dressed appropriately and recovered few tools and less food. At least half their number were elderly or children.

The soldiers left after the Elder One’s attack brought up the rear, helping those who fell behind, but it was slow going. There were muttered curses as people tripped and stumbled in the snow and a child’s occasional cry, quickly hushed, but there was an expectant silence -- tense and fearful -- for the most part.

The Herald and her companions could not last long, and once their champions were gone, the Elder One and his dragon would seek the refugees out. That was the smothering fear that settled over them, seen in hunched shoulders, downcast eyes and backwards glances.

Cullen kept to the rear, along with the rest of the Inquisition’s leadership -- minus Cassandra, who chose to stay with the Herald. He ground his teeth. He should have stayed and protected her as long as he could. That would have been clean and honorable, instead of slinking out the back, cringing like a whipped dog and waiting for the final blow to fall from behind. He had not often been an honorable man, but he could have met an honorable end.

Someone had to think of the common folk, had to give them a chance and hope, but he wished it were anyone but him. It was selfish and beneath him, but it was true.

He left her to die. She was the Herald of Andraste, and he left her to die. She closed the Breach and they cast her aside as soon as their purpose for her was fulfilled.

He left her to die while he ran away.

Ahead, Leliana stopped while motioning for those ahead to continue.

“Well, Commander, are we far enough above the snowline?” she asked.

He considered their position carefully -- to make a mistake was to sentence them all to death under an avalanche -- then nodded. He gestured to a scout, and she lit a resin-soaked tow arrow and shot it toward the sky.

Cullen waited. She could already be dead or mortally wounded. Seconds crawled by, each tense and breathless. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Josephine clasped her hands to her breast, her gaze fixed on the valley below. Leliana crossed her arms, standing off by herself.

They waited.

For several moments, there was nothing.

Then, a low rumble and a vibration. The sound built and people cried out as the ground shook beneath their feet. With a roar, snow and stone rushed down the valley, an implacable wave that washed over Haven, leaving nothing but a glistening field of immaculate snow behind it.

Weak cheers rose as the stragglers realized they were safe -- as safe as a group of people fleeing into the mountains without a plan or destination, warm clothing or food could be.

Cullen stared at the snow field.

Haven was beneath that.

His soldiers were beneath that.

 _Lady Trevelyan_ was beneath that.

And he had sent them all to their deaths.

Cullen closed his eyes. He had added new ghosts to those who haunted him.

##  

She was wrapped in something heavy and warm, swaying back and forth. Evelyn’s limbs were leaden, exhaustion weighing heavily on her. She shivered and shook, and her hands and feet felt like they were stabbed endlessly with a host of needles. It came back to her: the Elder One, firing the trebuchet into the mountainside, the avalanche, running, a wave of snow and stone, falling, clawing her way to the surface …

Fur brushed her cheek and she struggled as she breathed in a familiar cologne: oakmoss and elderflowers.

“She’s waking up,” Ser Rutherford said.

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra said.

Evelyn tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy to lift. Yet, at the same time, a weight lifted from her shoulders at the sound of Cassandra’s voice. Cassandra was alive.

“Cassandra?” She swallowed painfully. “Did Varric and Cole make it? Did the villagers escape? Did the Inquisition soldiers escape?” Her voice was husky and cracked, and her throat hurt.

“Varric and Cole are fine,” Cassandra said. “While you distracted the Elder One, we were able to escape. Most of our people and the villagers escaped. We thought you … but the Maker has given you back to us. Cole sent us to look for you. After he found the encampment, I trusted his instincts.” She held a handful of snow to Evelyn’s lips. “Here, take this.”

Snowmelt trickled between Evelyn’s lips. “I couldn’t … I tried … but I couldn’t save them all. The mages … they’re dead.” She must be delirious, because it felt as if Ser Rutherford held her even tighter. He carried her, and she suspected she was wrapped in his coat. Evelyn decided not to complain just now. She was too tired to properly argue with him. And, if she was completely honest, she was a little bit glad he still was alive. A little bit.

“You did all you could,” Cassandra said soothingly. “Rest now. We will be at the camp soon.”

Evelyn shivered, and Ser Rutherford turned so the bulk of his body was between her and the wind. She always objectively knew he was taller and broader than her, but snuggled against his chest, he seemed very large and very, very male. If she wasn’t so heartsick and weary, it might present an interesting conundrum.

No, it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. She settled against his shoulder, exhausted from even her weak efforts. She sighed, and he flinched when her breath feathered over his throat.

She wanted to puzzle out what it meant, but she drifted away again.


	5. Cullen Contends & Evelyn Covets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen & Evelyn take turns being awkward and breathless; Dorian Greatly Approves.

There were a thousand details that needed addressed immediately, if not sooner. This fortress, this Skyhold was defensible, but would be more so once the surrounding area was scouted thoroughly and the walls were in need of repair …

Messengers came and went. Cullen didn’t have the time or inclination to search out a command center, then go through the long process of making it a suitable work space. There were things that needed to be done. A field command in the lower bailey was adequate for now.

He would not run away again. He would not leave anyone to die. He would defend them. He would protect them. He would act as a knight should.

Almost as if she was summoned by his thoughts, the Herald -- no, she was the Inquisitor, now, he needed to remember that -- crossed the lower bailey. They had not spoken at length since the siege at Haven. He wanted to speak to her, apologize for leaving her and vow it would never happen again, but the opportunity never presented itself.

“We set up as best we could at Haven, but could never prepare for an archdemon -- or whatever that was,” he said as she approached. “With some warning, we might have … ” He trailed off. They could have had all the warning in the world, yet not been prepared. Haven never was built for such a purpose.

She didn’t seem interested in his assurances. “Do you ever sleep?” She picked up a stack of messages -- correspondence on where they might hire a master builder to address the keep’s structural deficiencies -- and paged through it.

He would like to sleep a whole night through, but his nightmares precluded that. “If Corypheus strikes again, we might not be able to withdraw,” he said. There was nowhere to go, except back into the snowy mountain passes. “And I wouldn’t want to. We must be ready. Work on Skyhold is underway, guard rotations established. We should have everything on course within the week. We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

It was as close as he could get to telling her he wouldn’t leave her again, even if only for his own selfish reasons. He never wanted to feel again the way he had when Haven was buried under snow and stone, believing she was lost.

“How many were lost?” She redirected his attention to more pressing matters.

“Most of our people made it to Skyhold. It could have been worse.” It would have been worse, but for her willingness to sacrifice herself. “Morale was low, but has improved greatly since you accepted the role of Inquisitor.” She survived Haven, and the people believed she could do anything … and he shared that sentiment.

She turned away. “It sounds odd.”

“Not at all.”

“Is that the official response?” She sounded suspicious, and it surprised him. Lady Trevelyan rarely gave away her feelings -- unless it was anger and mostly at him. He had an unfortunate talent for rubbing her the wrong way.

“I suppose it is, but it’s the truth. We needed a leader and you proved yourself.”

“Thank you, Cullen.”

She rarely used his given name, and the sound of it on her lips appealed to him.

“Our escape from Haven was close,” she said. “I’m relieved that you -- that so many made it out.”

He was too stunned over her admission to be articulate, but he was rarely eloquent around her. “As am I.”

She turned to leave and he would lose this chance to tell her how brave -- how inspirational -- he found her.

“You stayed behind. You could have -- I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word,” Cullen vowed, stumbling. That was not what he wanted to say ...

She nodded, accepting his promise. “I didn’t know you could sing, ser,” she said. “Back … after Haven. You sang with the rest. It surprised me. You have a good voice.”

“Yes, well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t often get the chance.”

“You’re so … martial,” she said. “I didn’t think you had interests outside of killing people.”

She must think him a bloodthirsty brute. “I have other interests, but my duties must come first.”

She gave him a speculative look. “What sort of interests might those be, Ser Cullen?”

“I play chess,” he said. “I enjoy history and some philosophy. Riding and hunting. Hawking. I’m not as good with a bow as some, however. Leliana, for example.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do hawking and hunting not count as martial?”

“I would say they’re more sporting than anything else.” He had a hard time moving past her assumption his interest lay primarily in killing people. Cullen would argue his interest in this area leaned more to staying alive.

“Perhaps you will have a chance to hunt here.” Her gesture encompassed Skyhold.

“I doubt that very much. Our focus must be on defeating Corypheus.”

“Of course. If you’ll excuse me, Ser Cullen?”

“I’m sure you have other things to attend.”

She was halfway up the stairs to the inner bailey when she stopped. “Ser?”

“Yes?”

“You must sing more often.” With an enigmatic smile, she continued up the stairs. “It’s a pleasure to hear.”

As she disappeared through the archway, he frowned. There was no understanding the woman. One moment, she argued with him, and the next, complimented him. She kept him on guard more effectively than a sparring session.

And he couldn’t wait for their next bout.

##

Evelyn paged through a stack of papers, nodding to Josephine and murmuring a hello as she passed. They had a war table meeting, and she’d be damned if she was caught unprepared -- even if the sheer scope of the Inquisition overwhelmed her. She arrived at the meetings a half hour before anyone else so she could go over the the most pressing matters. They stacked up when she was in the field, but she couldn’t neglect the hand’s-on work she needed to do, especially closing rifts.

She couldn’t seem to find a balance, but she was determined to try. She would succeed, because failure was unthinkable.

Ser Cullen was already there. She was torn between pleasure at his presence and disappointment she wouldn’t be able to prepare.

Ser Cullen looked up from his own correspondence and pinned her to the wall with a glare. She hadn't done anything to warrant it -- at least, not lately -- so she raised her chin and glared back.

He grimaced, then sighed and rubbed his face. "Forgive me, Lady Evelyn. I have been in communication with Lady Vivienne, and it ... hasn't been cordial. I'm used to being disliked on principle, but ..." He shook his head. "She makes an art of it, and I fear I am her clay."

Evelyn set her papers on the table. "Strange. I wouldn't have guessed her to hate templars on principle. Vivienne told me she had met charming templars.” She paused a beat. “They must reserve such for the Montsimmard Circle.”

“I was never offered a position at Montsimmard,” he said drily.

A joke? Ser Cullen? Surely not. “Neither was I,” she said. “Although, to hear Vivienne tell it, it was the only Circle that mattered.”

“I listen to her as little as possible.”

“Perhaps she was right. She met and fell in love with a duke, while there were a surfeit of impressive titles at Ostwick.”

“No? Not even a bann or two?” His gaze had weight, and his eyes lightened in color to nearly gold. There was a curious new tension between them in the space of a breath.

She should ignore it, but she didn’t want to -- she spent her life doing the safe thing, the cautious thing, the correct thing, all in an effort to stay in control. Sometimes, part of her wanted to do what was desirable and dangerous, but she held herself back. She had to be in control. Anything less wasn’t befitting of the senior enchanter she aspired to be -- and it invited madness.

The few times she indulged her appetite for danger, it went badly.

Ser Cullen looked at her in a way that was intriguing and inspired idle, yet perilous, fancies. His lingering glances weren’t infrequent or subtle. Ser Cullen wasn’t good at subtle or secretive. She knew better -- he was knight-captain at Kirkwall -- but that distinction didn’t seem so important late at night when her mind wandered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after the silence stretched out too long while she engaged in an interior debate. “That was inappropriate. My deepest apologies, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn shrugged. “There wasn’t a bann to be had, ser. Only templars.”

He started. “Were there no mages at your Circle? I would think you found templars to be even less appealing than Lady Vivienne does.”

“We are all young and foolish at least once.”

“But a templar?” He looked at her intently, missing nothing.

“I was very young.” She paused. “And very, very foolish.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to tell me this. It’s not necessary, if you don’t want to speak of it.” He circled around the table, his eyes intent on her.

She took a corresponding step back, but still had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “His name was Edwyn Forbes.”

He took a step forward. “What happened?” He moved toward her like a hunter cornering his prey.

She took another step back. “We were young and foolish, both of us. We were caught in a rather inelegant trap.”

She would never forget being dragged to the Knight-Commander’s office in the middle of the night. Edwyn had sent her a note via Marjorie, who could be trusted implicitly, or so she believed until Knight-Captain Roarke materialized out of the shadows of their meeting place.

She couldn't forget Roarke’s armored fingers digging deeply into her arm; the shadows across the Knight-Commander’s face failing to hide the weariness and disgust; First Enchanter Brenna’s solemn eyes and grim expression; and Edwyn, looking anywhere but at her, his soft answers denying she was anything more than another apprentice, perhaps he had been too kind …

It hurt at the time, but when she grew up a little, she realized he protected her as best he could. She gave him cold shoulders and accusing looks in her misunderstanding -- in the few weeks between their discovery and his reassignment -- and he bore them with grace.

“Does it matter whether a trap is elegant or not, when you’re caught in it?” Ser Cullen asked.

She shook her head. “I suppose not.” Her back was against the wall, her palms flat against the rough stone. Evelyn felt trapped now. She could no longer claim the excuse of youth, but she still was foolish. She hesitated. “If we had … if we had met at the Circle, would you … ?”

“No,” he said firmly. “No matter what I felt.”

“No?”

“It would be a violation of my vows.”

“But you didn’t take a chastity vow … ”

“No, but I did vow to protect the mages.”

“How does staying chaste protect mages?”

“A templar would make an excellent thrall for a blood mage.” His smile was bitter and more than haunted.

Her mouth dropped open. “I … ” She saw the damage a templar could do, but never thought about the possibility it was borne of anything but their own cruelty or fear.

“On the other hand, even only the merest whisper that a templar was unnaturally devoted could be devastating to a mage. And that’s not the only danger.” He touched her cheek. “Don’t we have enough power without having your hearts as well?”

He loomed over her, so close that when she took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest brushed his armor.

“I don’t think you realize how lucky you were in the Ostwick Circle.” He tipped her chin up and pressed gently but insistently until she looked him in the eye. “When a templar forgets their vows, all manner of abuses are possible.”

She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. She wanted … Her eyelids fluttered, and she turned her face away, somehow knowing if she offered her mouth for a kiss, he would claim it.

“Not only are abuses possible, but they _will_ happen.” He stepped back. “So, no, no matter what, I would never have acted on any … untoward feelings toward you … or any other mage … in the Circle.”

Their eyes met, and his were bright with some strong, unspoken emotion.

“Cullen … “ she whispered.

He shook his head. “My Lady Inquisitor.” He turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

She sagged against the wall. Andraste preserve her, but that man would be the death of her.

##

The Inquisitor stood behind him, leaning against the wall and staring out the arrow slit. She spoke, but he concentrated very hard on not shaking. He didn’t have much attention left for what she said, only enough to nod when she paused in her narrative.

He had been in the habit of taking lyrium at this time each day, and it was the worst part of the day. He could have it if he wanted. But not really. The shock after so long in denial could kill him, but wasn’t probable. More importantly, his templars would know he failed, and it would discourage them from trying to beat their own addictions.

He couldn’t fail.

So he clutched the edge of his desk and tried not to shake, while she clarified some small matter he didn’t need clarified. He did need the distraction. The rise and fall of her voice was soothing. If only he could keep her speaking until the worst of his shaking passed.

She touched the back of his neck, and he nearly jumped out of his chair. He was so distracted by his internal struggle he didn’t hear her approach.

“Be still, Commander,” she said. “I know you are in pain.”

“I -- ”

“Be still.” She stroked the back of his neck, from the nape to the scalp, along his spine. “If you need it to be an order so you will be still, then it is an order.”

Her touch was hot, and he remembered fire was her most prominent gift. A strange one for a mage who was so reserved. A mage’s magic usually was more reflective of their personality, and he would guess her gift tended toward ice.

She stroked his neck, his temples and his scalp, running her fingers through his hair. It was completely inappropriate, but he stifled a groan of relief as his headache eased. The relief of simply not hurting was too great to stop her.

“A pity you’re wearing all this armor,” she murmured. “Most headaches hide in the shoulders. What are you armored so staunchly against?”

“Someone putting a blade through my heart.”

She rubbed his temples with her thumbs and he almost melted at the exquisite absence of pain. He relaxed into her touch, a sigh escaping his lips.

“Really, Lady Evelyn, you do not -- ”

“Nonsense, Ser Cullen, what use are you to the Inquisition if you can’t think for the pain?”

If someone came into his office -- and Maker knew the door opened far more often than it shut -- to find the Inquisitor running her fingers through his hair, they wouldn’t guess it was innocent. It _felt_ intimate, her hands on him, her fingers in his hair, trailing down his neck, dipping below the edge of his collar, moving along the line of his jaw. His muscles relaxed under the heat and applied pressure.

“My lady,” he sighed.

“Hush, Commander.”

“This is inappropriate. There will be talk, if we are discovered.”

She didn’t disagree, only continued to work on his neck, temples and scalp.

“My lady … please.” It was a strangled gasp. His control hung by a thread.

She released him and circled around his desk. “Better, Ser Cullen?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She nodded. “Do you require anything further from me?”

“No.”

“I will excuse myself, then.” She sketched a skirtless curtsey.

“Good afternoon.” He looked away; even eye contact felt strangely intimate. She couldn’t know; Maker, he hoped not. It was difficult enough to work with her now.

Andraste preserve him if a simple kindness had him so foolish.

The door re-opened, and he looked up, ignoring his soaring heart and sense of anticipation. It was one of Leliana’s runners, and he dismissed a surge of disappointment.

“Report?” he asked.

Ten minutes later, he was absorbed in his work.

And his headache was completely gone.

##

"Well, isn't this a nice surprise?"

Evelyn started and spun around as Dorian strolled up.

"What, not happy to see me?" he asked.

"Of course I'm happy to see you, but not so _loud_."

"Hmm. Are we being discreet? I've never been good at it." Dorian leaned against the battlement and glanced down at the sparring ring where Warden Blackwall and Ser Cullen circled each other, looking for an opening.

Ser Cullen's chest heaved and sweat soaked his broad shoulders and trickled down his taut stomach. His damp hair curled around his temples and ears.

Blackwall might not even be there as far as Evelyn was concerned, although it might disappoint Dorian he kept his quilted jacket on.

Ser Cullen feinted, and Blackwall smoothly adjusted his stance, but didn't fall for it.

"You know," Dorian said, tone thick with amusement, "I don't believe I've seen your commander spar quite like this before."

"He's not my commander." She bit the insides of her cheeks in an effort to keep her expression neutral.

"He's yours before anyone else's."

Evelyn gave Dorian a sharp look, and he raised a shoulder in a careless shrug. "He does command your armies, after all." He smiled. "What did you think I meant?"

She didn't trust herself to answer. Besides, the idea of having her own standing army frightened her. She wasn't the most experienced or confident of leaders and wished Cassandra was named Inquisitor instead. Cassandra was someone who could convincingly lead an army of the faithful.

Blackwall swung his blunted sword at Ser Cullen's torso, but the commander leaned out of the way so that it grazed him.

"What do you mean, you've not seen him spar like this?" Ser Cullen never sparred with the recruits. Blackwall and Cassandra were his most frequent partners, and she was embarrassed she knew it.

"He usually doesn't strip down." Dorian paused. "Not that I mind."

"It's hot." Perhaps Dorian would think the color in her cheeks was from the heat as well.

"Of course, that's it." Dorian snapped his fingers. "I can see it playing out just this way on the battlefield. 'Excuse me, it's scorching, so if you don't mind, I'll take off my armor, even though it's the only thing keeping you from putting a sword in my gut.' Commander Cullen is just the sort of man not to acclimate himself to fighting in full armor in the heat. He flies by the seat of his pants, that man."

Evelyn tried to wither Dorian on the spot with the heat of her glare, but it didn't work.

Blackwell caught Ser Cullen with a stinging blow across the lower ribs. Evelyn gasped, but Ser Cullen only redoubled his efforts, although he favored his injured side.

"You see? There's a reason those ham-handed brutes wear it." Dorian patted her shoulder. "He'll be alright."

"I have no doubt." She put on her haughtiest mein, but Dorian only laughed.

"You can't fool me, Evelyn. You get the strangest look on your face when our commander comes up in conversation, like you're doing your damnedest not to melt into a puddle on the spot."

"Dorian!" she hissed.

"I think it's adorable -- and, honestly, the whole ice queen bit wasn't working for you. I only say it because I love you."

"Dorian!" Evelyn would die of mortification. Or Dorian would -- because she would kill him.

"He is rather strapping, and I can't say I don't appreciate the appeal, or the whole forbidden mage-templar angle." He frowned. "He isn't a templar anymore, and you're no damsel in distress, but you can improvise. Sharing fantasies keeps things interesting."

"Dorian!"

"I can't really say he has exceptional taste -- he's not interested in me -- but judging by the number of times he's glanced up here to make sure you're watching him fight half-clothed, it is better than most."

Sweet Maker, she would self-immolate from embarrassment, but she would take Dorian with her. Besides, although Ser Cullen looked this way a few times, he couldn’t see her. She chose this spot because it was difficult to see from the ring.

Swords rang as Ser Cullen and Blackwall engaged. Evelyn clenched her fists and counted her breaths. She flinched every time Blackwall even came close to landing a blow.

Dorian slung an arm around her shoulders and murmured reassurances Ser Cullen would come out in one piece.

Dorian was right: He ought to be wearing his armor. The man was careless. She told Dorian as much.

"If he's injured, it will be an imposition on the Inquisition."

"On the upside, you can nurse him. Oh, quit glaring at me like that. You said yourself you needed to work on the healing arts."

Blackwell hooked a foot behind Ser Cullen's calf and sent him crashing to the ground, but Ser Cullen turned into the fall, transforming it into a tuck-and-roll maneuver and springing to his feet. The two men circled and feinted.

"Blackwell _cheated_!"

"You didn't seem all that concerned when he used that same move on a red templar who was trying to take your head off in the Emerald Graves," Dorian said. "There are no rules in war. If you try to fight by a code of conduct, you'll die."

She knew that, but when Ser Cullen tumbled to the ground, her heart was in her throat. "It's only a sparring match."   

"And both of them are too competitive for their own good."

Ser Cullen swung, leaving his sore ribs open, and Blackwall took advantage. The blow was audible, and Evelyn recoiled. Ser Cullen stepped inside Blackwall's guard and brought his sword around so the blunted edge rested against the other man's throat.

The end of the bout was met with a hearty round of applause.

Dorian pointed toward the far end of the inner bailey. "Look, we're not the only ones enjoying the show."

Many of Skyhold's servants and soldiers were crowded around the practice ring, cheering. One buxom blonde pushed through the crowd to offer Ser Cullen a dipper of water and a suggestive smile.

Evelyn clenched her fists. She didn't care if the man drowned in female attention. He was oblivious, infuriating, stubborn, never ran into an issue he didn't think he could pummel into submission ...  

"Careful, Inquisitor," Dorian said mildly. "Your hands are on fire."

Evelyn cursed and shook them out.

"Perhaps you should go down and offer the victor his laurels before that blonde does," Dorian said.

"For what? Winning a practice bout?" She shrugged. "It takes more than that to impress _me_. He will have to satisfy himself with the admiration of kitchen wenches."

"I knew there was some Pavus in you, cousin," Dorian said. "That was so haughty as to be almost believable. Bravo!"

She lifted her chin and swept down the stairs. Her grand exit was only ruined a little by Dorian's laughter.


	6. Cullen Reads & Evelyn Rants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen reads Swords and Shields, and he's not sure why.

Cullen shook Blackwall's hand. "Couldn't have taken it a little easy on my ribs, could you?"

Blackwall smiled. "Wanted it to look convincing, didn't you? Our Lady Inquisitor faced down pride demons with more aplomb then she showed when I cracked your ribs."

Cullen winced. "I think you may have cracked them."

"Then a healer's your next stop." Blackwall clapped him on the back. "Here comes the lady. She's white as a sheet -- I think you gave her a scare."

Cullen grabbed his tunic and pulled it over his head as Lady Evelyn crossed the inner bailey. She was pale and had the bored expression she used when she wanted to hide her thoughts.

Cullen didn't notice her observing their semi-regular bouts; Cassandra and Blackwall did. He sparred with the two because they not only challenged him, but regularly beat him. He would get no better with easy opponents, and he liked to think he sharpened their skills as well. It brought him peace of mind to know one or the other was nearly always in the field with the Inquisitor.

Blackwall had known something was up when Cullen stripped off the padded jacket he normally wore for practice.

"What are you doing?" Blackwall had said. "Even a blunted blade stings."

"I want the freedom of movement." Cullen knew it was a weak excuse even as he said it. The light jacket gave him plenty of maneuverability, but he couldn't say he wanted Lady Evelyn to look at him.

Blackwall shrugged, shook his head and hefted his blade. “It’s your funeral.”

Cullen's experience with women wasn't vast, but neither was he unobservant. He knew women admired his appearance, although his face wasn't due to any virtue or hard work of his own. Lady Evelyn gave no sign his appearance was to her liking, and it was a relief at first. He didn't know what he would have done if she expressed an attraction while he struggled with inappropriate feelings.

Then he grew to know her and appreciate her generous heart and how she forged a band of misfits into a family. He admired her. He served willingly, even eagerly, knowing their cause and people were important to her.

Cassandra and Blackwall had pointed out Lady Evelyn watched him at practice often, but it had been Cassandra who put the foolish idea to fight bare-chested in his head.

She had given him a copy of Swords and Shields.

"What is this rubbish?" he had asked when the Seeker tossed it on his desk. "Take it away before someone gets the impression it's mine." Gossip like that would spread quickly through the barracks: The commanding officer read shoddy romances.

Cassandra crossed her arms. "Leliana is tired of you staring at the Inquisitor over the war table when you think no one is looking."

"I have not." Cullen would give a prayer of thanksgiving if a Fade rift appeared and swallowed him whole.

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. "Josephine is tired of the Inquisitor hand-delivering reports -- including diplomatic reports when nothing pertinent is available -- as a work-related excuse to speak to you."

Cullen choked. "I didn't --"

" _I_ am tired of her black looks whenever I put you on your ass when we spar and your surly disposition toward all but the Inquisitor the day before we leave for the field."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't --"

"The general consensus is the tension between the two of you is thick enough to choke on and since neither of you appear to being doing anything about it --"

"This is ridiculous! No --"

"-- it is up to us to give you a nudge," she continued right over his protests. "If, for no other reason, so that Josephine gets her paperwork on time. Also, Varric promises not to put this in his biography of the Inquisitor, if that is holding either of you back."

Cullen surged to his feet. "You tell that dwarf he _libeled_ me in Tale of the Champion and I haven't forgotten it. If he so much as _hints_ at an inappropriate and nonexistent relationship between myself and the Inquisitor, I will truss him up and hang him head down over the most ghastly, rotten, corpse-infested stretch of Fallow Mire bog I can find.

"Your intervention isn't needed nor appreciated. Now, if you'll excuse me, Seeker, I have work to do and no time for this nonsense."

Cullen sat back down and pointedly ignored her. He signed off on a requisition, then penned a note to Ser Morris about the lack of proper tents for field agents. The angry scratch of his quill was the only sound in the room for a long moment.

Cassandra stood with her hands on her hips, watching him. "Perhaps we made a mistake," she said.

"You did." Cullen wanted to pretend this hadn't happened. Maker, he couldn’t remember being so embarrassed in his life.

"Perhaps we misread both of you."

"You did."

"Josephine will be happy to hear it," Cassandra said.

"Good, I --" Cullen stopped writing. "Why would Josephine be happy?" He knew it was a mistake as soon as he asked the question. No, not a mistake; more like a trap.

"The Inquisitor has received a number of marriage proposals -- politically motivated, most have not even met her." Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "She refused to discuss them, but now we are sure her heart doesn't lie elsewhere, Josephine can revisit the issue."

The quill in his hand snapped. "I'm sure Josephine will be pleased," Cullen growled.

Cassandra smiled. "Since we have nothing to discuss, I will leave you to your duties." She was in the doorway when she stopped. "Commander?"

Cullen paused in the process of sharpening a new quill, suspicious. "Yes, Seeker?"

"The Inquisitor is a gentlewoman. She will expect chivalry and romance. I recommend a close reading of Swords and Shields." And she shut the door behind her, leaving the blasted book on his desk.

He snapped a second quill.

 

Cullen had tossed the copy of Swords and Shield into his trunk while he meditated on how best to rid himself of it without being seen.

However, Cassandra's parting shot on gentlewomen hit its mark. Cassandra grew up among nobility, so she had insight. Perhaps Lady Evelyn wanted to be swept off her feet. Cullen didn't even know where to begin in making a grand gesture that would win a noblewoman's heart, but he was sure it wasn't in the pages of Swords and Shields.

The more he thought about it, the more the obstacle seemed insurmountable. Not the romantic foolishness, but the differences in their status. Cullen was common-born, held no titles or land and had no wealth. He had nothing to offer her, other than his devotion and service. The nobles who wanted to wed her would bring needed coin, contracts, land and soldiers to the Inquisition. Marriage between nobility was a business transaction, not affection. Maybe that was why gentlewomen were preoccupied with romance.

That a merchant guild dwarf could give expression to a feminine longing puzzled Cullen. Varric didn't strike him as a man particularly interested in gentler emotions, yet Cassandra -- and others -- endorsed the series.

It wasn't until he overheard the Inquisitor discussing the serial that he dug out the copy Cassandra gave him. Lady Evelyn admitted to reading it. In public.

His copy was worse for wear, having spent some weeks in the bottom of the trunk. Something had spilled on it, and a throwing knife pierced it more than three-quarters through, although Cullen didn't _remember_ stabbing it.

He paged through it quickly, not because it was good -- the prose was florid, continuity an afterthought and the plot made any leap necessary for a heaving bosom or tearful confession -- but in a haze of incredulous fury. The knight-captain and her lover, the captain of the city guard, were clearly based on Aveline Hendyr and himself. Varric switched Aveline to a templar and Cullen to a guardsman and altered their names to Avalynne and Colin, but otherwise rendered them faithfully.

Cullen wasn't sure if he wanted to kill Varric himself or sick Aveline and Donnic on him. When he reached a scene in which Guard Captain Colin fought off half a dozen attackers in nothing more than a sheet wrapped around his hips while Avalynne cooed approvingly -- something the real Aveline never would have done -- Cullen considered setting the book on fire.

Instead, he went looking for Varric.

Varric was beside the fire in the great hall, paging through his voluminous correspondence; only Josephine received more. He looked up when Cullen's shadow fell across the page he was reading. "Something I can do for you, Curly?"

"Battlements. Now."

"You look --"

" _Now_."

"Okay, okay, no need to get angry." Varric held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and stood.

Cullen wasn't fooled; pushovers didn't last long in Marian Hawke's company. He kept a close eye on Varric as they made their way to the battlements.

"Now, can you tell me why we're out here?"  Varric asked.

"I wonder if dwarves can fly," Cullen said. "Suppose I toss you over and we see?"

Varric took a step back, looking around for escape or rescue. "Let's talk about this. The Inquisitor wouldn't be too happy if you --"

"Swords and Shields." Cullen stood between Varric and the stairs.

Varric's eyes widened. "I didn't think you'd read that one," he admitted. "What do you want, a cut? It hasn't done well. I need to re-think the male lead."

Cullen took a step forward.

"The writing needs work," Varric hastened to add.

"Does Aveline know?"

Varric smirked. “She’s a big fan, actually.”

“Does she know who Colin is based on?”

Varric's face drained of color. "Are you going to tell her?"

Cullen considered it for a moment, but Varric was right, Lady Evelyn would be upset if something happened to him. "Not if you write Colin out."

Varric nodded. "Actually, I think that might work. Readers love doomed love affairs. You might have a knack for this, Curly." Then, on seeing Cullen's expression, "but maybe you should stick to killing people."

 

Cullen found the entire Swords and Shields mess ridiculous, but Varric was good as his word and  wrote Colin out -- thrown off a battlement -- in the next installment, which the women of Skyhold passed around and tearfully discussed.  

Cullen thought that was the end of the matter until he walked in on Lady Evelyn, Josephine, Cassandra and Leliana having tea. They were scheduled to hold a war table meeting, and Cullen wanted to go over some agreements allowing troops to bivouac on certain nobles' holdings, so he sought out their ambassador prior to the meeting.

The women were gathered around the fire, having tea and sharing a box of Antivan chocolates, when he walked in. They were so engrossed in their conversation, they didn't notice him.

"Your turn, Inquisitor." Josephine took a bite of chocolate. "Your favorite scene."

Lady Evelyn laughed, and Cullen stopped short in the doorway. He couldn't remember hearing her laugh in genuine amusement. She looked like a different person; softer.

"Well ..." She took a sip of tea.

"Don't tease!" Leliana said.

"When Captain Colin fought off that assassin squad with nothing but a sheet and a sword," Lady Evelyn said. "That was ..." She fanned herself and the other women laughed and murmured their approval.

"Captain Colin was so dreamy." Josephine laid a hand over her heart. "Like he stepped out of a minstrel's song."

"A noble knight out of an elvhen tale," Lady Evelyn agreed. "A pity he's fictional. What I wouldn't do to meet a living, breathing version." The rest of them sighed and assented.

Cullen was thunderstruck; these women worked beside him every day, yet they didn't recognize a fictionalized version of him. He hadn't thought Captain Colin all that noble, anyway, the way he used Avalynne's bedroom window as if it were the front door and he had a key and every right to use it.

"I still can't believe Varric killed him off," Cassandra said. "Right after Knight-Captain Avalynne was finally cleared of the false charges and they could be together!"

Lady Evelyn leaned into the group. "Varric told me Avalynne is going to investigate Colin's murder and have her revenge -- with the help of a dashing Tevinter mage."

Pavus! Varric killed Cullen off and replaced him with _Pavus_. Cullen considered warning him, but realized he might be pleased enough by this turn of events to read the Void-damned thing, and Pavus would recognized Colin as Cullen, even if the women didn't. Cullen would never hear the end of it.

He cleared his throat, and the women looked up. "I'm sorry to interrupt ..." He gestured vaguely at the group around the fire.

"Our book club meeting, Commander," Leliana said.

"Yes, that."

"We were just wrapping up." Cassandra jumped to her feet, blushing. Cullen wouldn’t have believed it possible if he didn’t see it for himself.

Lady Evelyn stood. "Let me walk you out, Cassandra. I had something else I wanted to tell you."

The two passed him as they left, and when Lady Evelyn looked at him, it was with complete disinterest.

A living, breathing version, indeed.

 

Now, here he was, his ribs bruised and maybe cracked, certainly aching, in the hopes that Lady Evelyn would look at him and see the chivalric knight of her imagination.

"Lady Evelyn," he said as she drew near.

She wrinkled her nose, and he realized he probably reeked of sweat.

"Ser."

"I -- uh, that is to say ..."

"Ser?" She raised an eyebrow.

Speaking to her shouldn't be so difficult. He spoke to beautiful women all the time without pause, although none of the others were the prophet’s chosen. "Good morning, Inquisitor."

"Good morning." She turned to leave.

Cullen realized he had no reason, real or created, to keep her. He might as well see the healer about his ribs.

“Commander!” The girl smiled at him and shook her long blonde hair over her shoulders, offering him another drink of water.

“Thank you.” He took the offered water. It was a hot day, and he worked up a thirst. Blackwell hadn’t gone easy on him.

“Ser Cullen, I need to speak with you.” Lady Evelyn motioned for him to follow her. “If you would please accompany me?”

Pavus began coughing, and Lady Evelyn frowned at him before clapping him on the back harder than perhaps necessary.

Cullen winced in sympathy. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He handed the dipper back to the girl -- he thought her name was Sarah -- and followed the Inquisitor as she took the stairs to the great hall.

He never looked back.

##

Dorian was grinning as the two of them climbed the stairs to her chambers. “Did you see the look he gave me when we left together? I thought he was going to hit me.”

“You needn’t be so cheerful about it, Dorian.” She sank down into a delicate Orlesian chair in front of the fire. She wanted a glass of wine; perhaps two glasses.

“It’s very invigorating if you like that sort of thing -- and I do.” He flopped down in his accustomed spot on the chaise. “It heats the blood, your commander’s glare.”

She sighed. “I wish you’d stop calling him my commander. He’s the Inquisition’s commander.”

“He could be yours, and it wouldn’t take any effort at all. That poor scullery maid -- you beckoned and he all but forgot she existed. And that was before she noticed you giving her the evil eye. Poor thing went as white as a ghost. She’ll probably run away and become a chanter to escape your enmity.”

Evelyn frowned. They would all be better off if Ser Cullen developed an attraction to someone more appropriate. This could only hurt the Inquisition, and Corypheus had to answer for a graveyard in Haven. “He’s a templar,” she said.

“A former templar.”

“You can strip a templar of their armor, but they are still a templar.” She rose and looked in the wine cellar. She was positive there was a nice dry Seraultine white in there somewhere.

“I would like to see that,” Dorian said.

Evelyn rolled her eyes in the privacy of the wine cellar, then grabbed the bottle she was looking for and a pair of glasses. “Southern templars aren’t like your templars, Dorian. They’re not soldiers in pretty armor. They’re … dangerous.”

“And therein lies the appeal.”

She poured and handed him a glass. “Have you ever been hit with a spell purge? It’s like going blind or deaf after a lifetime of sight or hearing, only it’s your connection to the Fade that’s severed.” She took a long drink. “It’s different for mages here, Dorian. We have no power. The Chantry’s given it all to the templars. And they use it.”

Dorian crossed his legs and took a delicate sip of wine. “He’s trying to leave his past behind him. Shouldn’t people be given a second chance?”

She took another long drink, then refreshed her glass. “You think he’s only on his second chance?” Evelyn shook her head. “No, Dorian, you haven’t heard the stories out of Kirkwall. The rest of southern Thedas has and they know who he is. I’m likely the most recognizable mage in Thedas, after the Hero of Ferelden --”

“The Archon would have something to say about that,” Dorian interjected.

She waved this off. “The most recognizable in southern Thedas after the Hero.”

Dorian raised his glass in salute.

“Becoming involved with him would be seen as an implicit endorsement of all he’s done -- especially in Kirkwall. I don’t want that.”

Dorian frowned and drummed his fingers against the chaise arm. “But you are attracted to him, aren’t you?”

Evelyn looked away. She didn’t want to be attracted to Ser Cullen. It felt like a betrayal of all those mages who suffered under templar rule -- but it was ridiculous to think she and Ser Cullen could stand in for every mage and templar. It wasn’t as if mage-templar relationships were unheard of, and she had been in one herself, although she had been too naive to realize it could never be anything more than a dirty secret. It hadn’t been much of a relationship, anyway.

“You’re pretending.” Dorian heaved a dramatic sigh. “Neither of you are very good at it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, serrah. I spent decades in the Circle pretending not to hate templars. I am accomplished at it.”

“Exactly!” Dorian gestured broadly to emphasize his point. “You’ve never mastered pretending you’re not madly attracted to a templar. I don’t suppose you had much practice in that regard.”

She scowled and swirled the wine in her glass. “No. It was much easier to hate templars in the Circle, before they called me ‘Your Worship.’”

“Maybe it wasn’t so much the templars you hated as the Circle system. I find templars to be wonderfully decorative myself.”

“I’ve told you, ours aren’t like yours.”

“Maybe it is easier to hate templars in general than it is to hate someone you know as a person -- a rather attractive person, I might add -- in particular.”

“But I know what he did to other mages.” She sounded lost and bewildered even to herself.  

Dorian put his glass down, crossed the room and pulled her into an embrace. Evelyn rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the comforting rhythm of his heart.

“I want you to be happy,” he said.

“I know.” She slipped her free arm around his waist, hugging him.

“Perhaps you should worry less about public perception and more about what you need,” he said.

Her shoulders slumped. “I wasn’t the first choice or even the second for this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give it all I have, not just for me, but to prove mages can be trusted.” She pulled away, and Dorian let her go, although he gave her hand a squeeze.

He sighed. “Don’t shoulder more than you can bear. If you have a chance for happiness, take it, and anyone who has a problem with it be damned.”

“I doubt Ser Cullen is my one chance for happiness. More like a high likelihood for regret.”

“You say that now, but you don’t act that way around him. It confuses me, and I’m sure it’s dizzying to our poor commander. He doesn’t strike me as a man well-versed in romantic games.”

At least Ser Cullen was now _our_ commander. “I will have to strengthen my resolve and treat him with polite distance.”

Dorian snorted; very ungentlemanly. “Good luck with that. That man would throw himself off the battlements if you smiled and said pretty please.”

“A good reason to leave him alone. He was taken advantage of by his commanding officer before.”

Dorian leaned forward. “The Commander and the Bitch of the Gallows? Do tell!”

Evelyn sighed. “I didn’t mean that -- well, not only that. It was only ever rumors, because he was promoted so young. There was some jealousy involved, I’ve no doubt.”

“It’s an interesting proposition.” Dorian took a sip of wine. “I bet she was frightening.”

“It was common knowledge that she was frightening.”

“No, I meant in bed.”

Evelyn didn’t want to think about Ser Cullen and Ser Stannard as lovers, and she certainly didn’t want to gossip and speculate about it. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

He choked on a mouthful of wine. “Perhaps not.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I might be interested in seeing this.”

“Would you be interested in seeing him separate my head from my neck as well?”

“If you’re worried about that, you shouldn’t ask prying questions,” she said mildly. She poured another glass of wine. She should eat something, drinking in the middle of the day. She recalled the crack of Blackwall’s sword against Ser Cullen’s unprotected ribs and took another long gulp. “Can’t you enjoy some good wine and stop nagging me about bedding him?” She must be intoxicated, if such things were coming out of her mouth.

Dorian shrugged. “What’s a little nudge between friends? I think it would be good for you, release some tension.”

“I don’t need a nudge, and I don’t need to do … _that_.”  

“Do _him_ ,” Dorian corrected with an inebriated snicker.

“I am thinking about throwing this glass of wine at your head.”

“That would be a tragic waste of wine. Besides, I can’t help it if I find the two of you adorable.”

"Speaking of adorable, how is our favorite Qunari spy?"

"Oh, we're playing favorites now, are we?" He looked away, likely to hide his smile and how his eyes softened.

It was an odd pairing of two traditional enemies, but she wanted it to work, because it would make them both happy. Maker knew they deserved some happiness. “I’m playing favorites?”

He shrugged. “It meets a need and helps me unwind, which is something we all need.”

She sniffed. “Some of us have more control than others. Better bloodlines, I suspect.”

“I will have to include that in my next letter home.”

She hid a smile by taking a sip of her wine.

“As long as we’re discussing the dreary, have you found your phylactery yet?” He dropped the playfulness like the act it was.

Evelyn shook her head. “Solas has spirits looking for it, but he hasn’t seen it, and neither have Adan and Ser Cullen. I asked them.”

“You asked a former templar if he’d seen your phylactery?”

“I asked carefully. If he saw it, I don’t think he has enough guile to hide it. I’m worried, Dorian.”

“Maybe it was destroyed in the blast,” he said.

“I hope so.”


	7. Cullen Broods & Evelyn Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is waging a war on two fronts. Poor guy just can't win.

There was a perfunctory knock at the door and Cullen looked up into Marian Hawke’s eyes -- a cool blue with a thousand-yard stare. Hawke was slender and petite, her long dark hair caught up in a careless ponytail.

"Viscount,” he said. He wasn’t surprised to see her -- Cullen suspected Varric knew where she was all along -- but he also knew Cassandra’s reaction would be … explosive.

Hawke frowned. “I don’t use that title anymore. I never much did … Commander.”

“What shall I call you?”

She shrugged and swaggered toward him. “Hawke?” She leaned against his desk. “Marian?” Her stare was frank and appreciative.

Cullen sat back. He admired Hawke, once desired her, but … he never loved her.

“Hawke, then,” he said.

Marian Hawke had her own demons, so if Cullen cried out in his sleep, she pretended it didn’t happen, while he extended her the same courtesy.  He wouldn’t call their relationship comforting -- there was nothing kind in it -- but it met a need. They went through much together. He would never turn his back on her, but … he never loved her.

Perhaps he was incapable of love while in Kirkwall. He was too busy surviving, operating on desperation and instinct. He still recognized the knight-captain in himself and wished he didn’t. He believed he made progress since leaving the Order, since standing up to Meredith, since he met Hawke. She was a catalyst in many ways. He might still be obeying Meredith’s orders, trying not to think too much or ask questions, if it wasn’t for Hawke. He owed her, but … he never loved her.

Cullen wanted to leave that man, the knight-captain, behind -- the man who allowed Hawke to take him as a casual lover in place of the one she truly wanted. Cullen was no longer the man who stared at the ceiling, tense and unsure, while she fought and cursed in the grip of her nightmares. He offered no comfort, only waited for it to be over. To draw her from her nightmares would be to admit they existed. If Hawke’s nightmares existed, then so did Cullen’s. He regretted prioritizing his shame over Hawke’s pain.

Both of them were too broken to offer what the other needed. And Hawke was in love with another man. Sometimes he wondered if that was a lie he told his guilty conscience. Hawke reminded him of the man he had been: frightened and weak, an addict and a good soldier.

Cullen wasn’t proud of that man and reminders more than made him uncomfortable -- he found himself tense, restless, anxious. He would hear a woman laugh and be back in Kirkwall, his pulse accelerating so he felt it in his ears and struggling to breathe. Despite Meredith’s death, Cullen would hear her voice, sharp and cold, and know punishment befell some unlucky mage and he would be the one to administer it.

Remembering administering those punishments -- from the venial to the cruel -- was bad, but remembering how little it bothered him at the time was worse. He kept silent even when he doubted, and he doubted rarely in the early days. He did not like to think of himself as a cruel man, but he had been cruel and had not recognized it.

Hawke was better off with Vael.

“How is Sebastian?” he asked.

Hawke smiled. “Fussy.” She strolled over to his bookcase, running her hands over the book spines. “I remember this one,” she said. Her fingers stopped on _Andraste and the Alamarri_. “I gave this to you for your birthday, do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

“Did you read it?”

“Twice.”

“Good. I’m glad you liked it.” Hawke looked around his office. “Coming up in the world, Commander.”

“I’m doing something useful.”

“But it’s a nice step up from knight-commander.”

“I was only an interim knight-commander,” he said.

“As if I would allow another in _my_ city.”

“A great many things were allowed in _your_ city after you left.” He and Aveline struggled to hold things together and ensure ordinary people didn’t get caught in the crossfire. It was worse after Hawke left. The vultures descended.

Hawke tilted her head, as if she listened to music he couldn't hear. Perhaps she did; Hawke always was an odd bird. "I left to protect the city. It made it more difficult for you and Aveline, but I couldn't risk an Exalted March."

"But it didn't come."

"No. You left, though."

The meaning was clear: Cullen had no right to level accusations when he also abandoned Kirkwall. He told himself he did what was best for the city, but those assurances rang hollow in the small hours of the night, when time crawled and doubt soared. In the small hours, he thought the Lady Evelyn was right: He fled.

"It was best to consolidate power behind one authority," he said.

"That was Aveline?" Much like Leliana, Hawke missed little.

"She is a good woman." And Kirkwall was never his home, not like it was Aveline's home or even Hawke's home.

"And you wanted to leave the Order."

There was no denying he was disillusioned. "Yes."

She took a step away from the bookcase. “What is she like? The Inquisitor? Varric told me about her, but she sounds too good to be true.” She paused. “He’s bought in. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She’s … she is Andrastian."

"She's the Herald of Andraste. I had assumed so."  

"She is reserved, private." Except when she was angry at him. “She cares about people, about helping them, but she tries not to show it. I don’t think she knows how to say no when it comes to helping people. At Haven, she was willing to give her life to allow the rest of us to escape. She is … all that Varric says. More.”

Hawke leaned against the wall. “When did you fall in love with her?”

He froze. “I don’t -- I don’t know what you’re talking about. That would be ... problematic.” Maker only knew how he had revealed himself in a few short sentences.

She shook her head. “How do you keep becoming involved with some of the most influential women in Thedas?”

“I’ve only -- we’re not -- you and I -- ”

She smiled. “I know. Just like I know that you love her. You should see your own face when you talk about her. It’s … goopy. It’s charming, actually. I never thought I’d see you give yourself over to emotion like that.”

“I -- ”

“Don’t worry, Cullen. Your secret is safe with me.”

Her smile wasn’t comforting.

##

Marian Hawke sat beside Evelyn at the breakfast table. Hawke's plate was piled high with breakfast meats.

"Good morning, Viscount," Evelyn said.

"Marian," the other corrected. "Or just plain Hawke."

"Hawke, then."

Hawke saluted her with a fork, then ate with the single-minded intensity of someone who didn't know when they would next eat. It reminded Evelyn of Inquisition soldiers in the field.

Evelyn sipped her tea, and the two sat in companionable silence as they enjoyed breakfast. It was relaxing not to worry about appearances or avoid questions about the anchor, the Conclave or Andraste.

Hawke didn't regard Evelyn with awe, and it was a relief not to be expected to speak prophecy or be mysterious. Evelyn didn't feel mysterious; most of the time she felt confused. Marian Hawke wouldn't know reverence if it swatted her on the nose, and Evelyn appreciated it. One of the things she found refreshing about Sera was her lack of reverence. Whenever anyone called her “Your Worship,” a small voice in the back of her mind asked her if she thought she was worthy.

Because she wasn’t.

Hawke sopped up the last of the gravy with a hunk of bread, popped the bread into her mouth, then licked her fingers clean. She leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

Evelyn finished her tea, patted her mouth with a napkin and laid it over her discarded plate.

Hawke laced her fingers together behind her head. "So."

"So?" Evelyn asked.

"How's Varric doing?"

"Well enough, I think. I know you're close; he speaks highly of you."

"And you." Hawke balanced her chair on two legs. "It's not easy to gain his trust. For Varric to vouch for you says a lot. " Hawke glanced at Evelyn. "If anything happens to him ..."

"It won't. I wouldn't allow it."

Hawke's gaze was a thousand miles away and unfocused. "There are a lot of people I never wanted anything to happen to." She shook her head. "Anyway, I'm not the only one who'll be upset, although there are more than a few who owe him money who would breathe a sigh of relief."

"I expect they will have to continue to pay for the time being. If not, I imagine Varric's interest rates are frightening than anything either one of us could dream up."

Hawke nodded. "He thinks you're the real deal. The way he was talking almost convinced me to take a stroll over to the chantry, but I figured the revered mothers wouldn't be keen on a lightning strike interrupting their prayers."

"Does Varric think that?" Evelyn fiddled with her tea cup. "I'm not convinced myself. I don't remember anything. If I were touched by Andraste, isn't that something I'd remember?"

Hawke tilted her head and considered it. "Void-damned if I know. I'd be the last person Andraste dropped in on for a spot of tea and conversation. I guess it doesn't matter, since everyone has decided it for you," she said, but not without sympathy.

"I never asked for it."

"I know how that goes," Hawke said. "You start out, only meaning to solve your own small problem, and by the time you realize what's happening, you're rescuing the city from dragons and deranged templars. What are you supposed to do? Tell everyone to fuck off? Silly bastards can't sort it for themselves, or they would have.

"The next thing you know, everyone is acting like you're some big damn hero when the truth is you just didn't have the guts to say no."

Evelyn sighed. "I don't know how I could ever live up to their expectations. I don't know what I'm doing half the time. It just somehow works out."

Hawke grinned. "Divine providence?"

Evelyn shook her head.

"Anyway, I know what you mean," Hawke said. "As soon as you get one mess cleared up, another one comes along. You get so used to shoveling shit, you don't even notice how weird everything is getting until it's chest-high and getting deeper."

"A dragon?" Evelyn killed a few herself, although it made her wistful and sad. She didn't kill the dragons for what they did, but for what they might do, and it reminded her of templars' rhetoric on mages. Both dragons and mages were too dangerous to live unchecked.  

Hawke shrugged. "It decided to nest in a mine; nice big pit and snacks delivered regular. I don't know how they missed a bloody big dragon, but they did. Nowhere near as impressive as it sounds, really."

"And Ser Stannard?"

" _Her_." Hawke grimaced. "She was nuttier than a shit-house rat. Maker knows how she fooled all those templars for so long. Of course, most of them were just as crazy, if not worse. Although, I don't mind templars. Much. My brother's one."

Evelyn had read the Seekers' history. Lord Seeker Lambert had sent templars with problems and suspected blood mages to Kirkwall deliberately. She told Hawke this.

"That son of a bitch," Hawke said. "A pity he's dead; I'd like to kill him myself. I suppose I'll have to satisfy myself with a squat over his grave."

Evelyn's eyes widened in shock.

"Oh, don't worry. I only mean to take a piss on it, not a shit." Hawke smiled reassuringly. "That would be unsanitary."

Evelyn coughed delicately into her fist. "Was your brother at Kirkwall?" she asked, desperate to change the subject.

"Yes and Maker only knows how he managed it," Hawke said. "I never imagined he could do well under Meredith. It surprised me, him taking the vows -- he's not much for following rules or keeping his mouth shut -- and nothing much surprises me anymore."

"He's ... well?"

"Did he survive the Gallows? He did -- no easy feat, that. He and Cullen finally stood up to Meredith. Took them long enough. They were fine with everything up to annulling the Circle." Hawke grimaced. "And I'm not sure they would have done anything even then, but she wanted to kill me. That got through their thick skulls."

Speak a demon's name, and it will appear. Ser Cullen and Ser Barris entered the room, deep in conversation. Ser Barris was a hand-talker, and while Ser Cullen was more circumspect, Evelyn knew something bothered him when he clutched his sword hilt. She bit her lip and wondered how his every gesture became so telling.

She looked away so Hawke wouldn't catch her staring. "You sided with the templars?" she asked.

Hawke scowled. "Every time something happened, there were blood mages at the bottom of it. It was always blood mages. Now I know why. Maker damn Lambert. But, yes, I sided with them." She looked up at the ceiling. "My little brother was a templar ... I couldn't fight him ... we had already lost our sister -- Carver’s twin. I don’t think he has forgiven me.” She rubbed her eyes. “She was a mage, too. But you sided with them; a Circle mage."

The implication was a Circle mage had more cause to hate templars than an apostate, but Circle mages at least tried to fit into their Chantry-ordained place. Apostates didn't bother, and templars hunted them for it. Although Circle mages did interact with templars more often and therefore suffered more indignities. Evelyn preferred the petty insults and small abuses over being murdered outright.

It simply was best not to be a mage when dealing with templars.

"Yes," Evelyn said. "I sided with them because they are good at killing abominations." She clenched her marked hand; the mark sputtered, as it frequently did when she felt a strong emotion. The more control she gained over it, the closer attuned it was to her emotions. "I was afraid I would become one, and I didn't want to harm anyone." Jade sparks flew. "I didn't realize Corypheus would force the mages to attack us. I thought there would be time to rescue them."

She stopped and took a deep breath and forced her fingers to unclench; four bloody half-moons were etched under the mark. "I begged the Grand Enchanter to stop. I didn't want to kill her."

Evelyn remembered Haven and Fiona's desperation. It had to have been desperation to throw children unable to control or direct their magic at templar-trained soldiers; so many small bodies in the snow, and so many soldiers dead because they could not bring themselves to strike down a child. Perhaps Corypheus had known it would happen.

Dead children haunted her even before Haven.

Evelyn lived because Fiona didn't want to kill her, and Evelyn killed Fiona in return. "All of them died because of a decision I made. Mages like me." Evelyn bit the inside of her cheeks and breathed slowly and carefully.

Hawke leaned forward, took Evelyn's wrist and examined the mark, uncaring of the attention her public interest drew. "I know about making decisions that result in people dying. Sometimes, there isn't a good choice to be made. You just do the best you can and deal with the consequences. Sometimes, that's your only choice." Hawke tilted her head toward Ser Barris. "Would you sacrifice him for the sake of the mages? And even if you would, you can't."

Evelyn bit her lip. Ser Barris would never have submitted to the red templars. He would have resisted, been overwhelmed and died. She never would have known the lack of a friend. She shook her head. "No, I would not. I wish there had been a way to save both ..."

"You are not responsible for the mages. They attacked you, and you survived. If it were the other way around, Corypheus would spare no time for doubts." Hawke's expression hardened into something frightening. "Corypheus is responsible. Kill him. As I should have done."

"Varric said he was dead."

"He was. He needed my blood to escape his prison. If I had only stayed away, this wouldn't be happening."

"What do you mean?"

"The wardens -- a spooky lot, those bastards -- used the blood of powerful apostates to power the spell that imprisoned Corypheus. They used my father's, and before him, the Shame of Serault. In order to break the spell, he needed blood of blood." Hawke shook her head. "I should have realized it was a trap."

"Sometimes there is no good choice," Evelyn said. "You did the best you could."

"And now all of Thedas is dealing with the consequences -- both of releasing Corypheus and of the discovery of red lyrium." Hawke grimaced. "I have damned us all."

"There is a reason the thaig is Bartrand's Folly, not Hawke's Folly. It wasn't your expedition. Besides, how could it have produced so much red lyrium? There must be another source, possibly unrelated."

Hawke sighed. "It is easier to give good advice than to take it."

"That also is good advice."

Hawke looked at Ser Cullen, and her expression was both speculative and possessive.

Ser Cullen looked up, met Hawke's eyes and held her gaze. Ser Barris spoke to him, and he deliberately turned away from Hawke when he answered.

Hawke brought the chair down on all fours with a bang and leaned into Evelyn. "You will have to pursue him."

"Pardon?" Evelyn coughed and struggled to hide her surprise. Hawke couldn't know about her infatuation. She was careful not to give herself away.

"He will twist himself into knots over duty and immobilize himself with indecision. You will have to give him a nudge."

"I'ven't an idea what you're talking about," Evelyn said faintly. "The commander is very decisive." She concentrated on breathing evenly in an attempt to quell her anxiety.

Hawke ignored this. "You've got to give him a nudge or he'll dither over whether it's honorable. As if it matters when the world is about to end."

"The world isn't about to end." Evelyn _could not_ be having this conversation.

Hawke shrugged. "Life is too precarious not to find happiness where you can. I'd like him to be happy. We're old friends."

"Friends?" Evelyn's tone was sharper than she wanted.

"It's one way of putting it." Hawke smiled crookedly. "You should see your face. You have the most evil look right now. Pity that Corypheus isn't here to see it, he'd head for the hills."

"I'm not interested in a relationship with the commander, so you're wasting your time."

Hawke shrugged. "I can assure you he's capable of making it worth your while, if the two of you can just get out of your own way."

Evelyn wasn't jealous. Whether Ser Cullen had one lover or a dozen in his past was none of her business. "You're mistaken," Evelyn said. "Our relationship isn’t …" It wasn’t like _that_ … but she wanted it to be, if she were honest.

"Too bad, there was a lot I might have told you. You might have found it useful down the road."

She would not set the Champion's hair on fire. "How kind, but unnecessary, for you to offer. I've things well in hand."

"He's probably got something in hand, too," Hawke said under her breath.

"Excuse?"

"I said that he's probably -- Hello, Cullen. We were just talking about you."

Evelyn turned. She'd been so intent on her minor difference in opinion with Hawke she failed to notice the templars had joined them.

Ser Cullen eyed Hawke warily. "Were you now?"

"I understand Hawke's brother also was a templar at the Kirkwall Circle," Evelyn said before Hawke could suggest either one of them handle _anything_.

Ser Cullen raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Carver served ably. I was sorry to part with him when I left Kirkwall, but he remained with the Order." He turned to Hawke. "Have you heard from him of late?"

"He was in ass-end of Orlais on an errand for the Divine and spent some time in Kirkwall after that," Hawke said. "Aveline had some business for him and my uncle in Ferelden."

"Such convenient timing," Ser Cullen said.

Hawke smiled. "Funny how those things work out."

He raised his eyebrow. "Indeed. I'm glad to hear he is well."

"Perhaps he will join his fellow templars," Ser Barris suggested. "We can use all the help we can get."

"I'm here," Hawke pointed out. "What more help could you need? Besides, Carver is somewhere off in avvar territory or maybe the Korcarii Wilds, I can't remember which off-hand. It would be too difficult to track him down."

"That you're unsure exactly where he is makes it especially difficult," Ser Cullen said.

Hawke shrugged. "You know me, Cullen. I'd forget my own head if it weren't attached."

"That's an interesting visual," Ser Barris said.

"And a new development," Ser Cullen said. "Hawke always was terrible at remembering where she last saw a runaway apostate, but rather good at remembering where she might run into a templar."

"All that armor made an impression." Hawke grinned. "It was the clanking. I could hear you coming."

"That Varric had a network of spies watching our every move in and out of the Circle had nothing to do with it?"

They had such an easy camaraderie Evelyn could see the two of them together, despite the idea of Ser Cullen being in a relationship with a mage -- an apostate -- flying in the face of everything she ever heard about him.

Not that she was jealous.

"Don't flatter yourself, Cullen," Hawke said. "Varric had Meredith watched, but there wasn't enough resources to have you both watched all of the time, and you were considered a target of lesser importance."

"Thank you," Ser Cullen said drily. "I think."

"It was better that way," Hawke said. "Didn't want him putting two and two together. Neither of us would ever hear the end of it, if Varric figured -- well, shit."

The silence was deafening, and color crept up Ser Cullen's neck until his ears and cheeks were red. Ser Barris abruptly excused himself to oversee drills.

Evelyn also excused herself. "I have an appointment with Dorian," she said. She had no such thing, but was certain Dorian would cover for her if asked.

Ser Cullen helped her from her chair -- she rather be didn't, but fending him off would be even more awkward -- and followed her into the rotunda.

"Hawke and I --" he began.

"I could not care less about your personal life, Ser Cullen," she said. "It isn't my business. You needn't explain it to me."

"We went through much together," he said.

"You needn't share with me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a prior appointment." She took the stairs to the library two at a time.

Of course Dorian wasn't there. Evelyn hid in his alcove until Ser Cullen gave up and left.

Hawke was right: He clanked.

##

Cullen sat beside Hawke with a sigh.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think."

"I'm not ashamed. She would have found out sooner or later. Better that it was from us."

Hawke chewed on her bottom lip. “I already told her. I meant I was sorry for telling Ser Barris. I thought his face was going to turn purple.”

Cullen thought there was a good chance Barris would keep it to himself. Barris was circumspect and close-mouthed. It was why he was able to make contact with the Inquisition under the red templars’ noses. “Why?” He didn’t relish being the subject of gossip, especially given the sort of tales Hawke could tell Lady Evelyn.

“I thought the two of you could use some help.” Hawke shrugged. “I told her you were … enjoyable. It would have worked with Isabela,” she added defensively.

Cullen wanted to throw himself on his own sword. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. It was a coping mechanism he frequently needed to use with Hawke. “Lady Evelyn isn’t Isabela.” Something Isabela found intriguing might send Lady Evelyn running in the other direction.  

"There is a positive in this," Hawke said.

"I'd love to hear it."

"She was jealous."

"She was embarrassed."

"And jealous."

"You're imagining things."

Hawke snorted in disgust. "Fine. You always were good at seeing what you wanted to see -- or at least what you thought you ought to see."

"And you never met a problem you weren't convinced you could fix. You can't fix this -- there's nothing there to fix. We have managed a peace, and that's likely the best I can hope for," Cullen said. Peace was the best he could hope for, but that didn’t stop him from wanting -- and hoping -- for more, regardless of futility.

"Is that why you followed her out?"

Cullen looked away. He acted foolishly around Lady Evelyn, and he never realized it until too late. It was a minor miracle she hadn't begun a quiet search for a new commander.

Hawke sighed. "It is strange to see you so unguarded. Getting away from the Order agrees with you. You seem ... more free, more trusting than I've ever seen you. You're very different than you were in Kirkwall."

"I could not do as I pleased in Kirkwall. You know that."

"Yes, you did as Meredith bid you, despite the wrong or right of it."

Hawke cut to the heart of the matter. She didn't mince words or take prisoners.

"Things are different now," was all he said.

"You're different. Better." She paused. "Less haunted."

"There are fewer things to trouble my conscience."

"Less time sentencing people to hard labor for minor infractions will do that," she said.

"Those were never my rules," he said.

"You enforced them," Hawke said. "They may as well have been yours."

"Things could have been worse yet." Meredith punished the mages for things they had not yet done, and that gave them the idea and impetus to do those things, which made her crack down harder.

It could spiral out of control quickly, and deciding what to bring before her was a balancing act: too little and she would suspect him of plotting against her -- of being a blood thrall -- but too much and she would arbitrarily punish and sanction. It was a fool's game once her madness was entrenched.

Cullen remembered Meredith’s hands around his throat. When she throttled him, Cullen had to keep his expression blank; anger or defiance would send her into a rage. He dared not strike her or throw her off -- she would set the others on him. Those who were as mad and cruel as her would be eager and the rest were as frightened and cowed as Cullen.

He saw no escape; he could only endure, try not to upset the balance and wait. He wasn't even sure what he waited for until Hawke arrived, and even then, it was difficult to rebel against Meredith, despite the ever-widening gap between her actions and what Cullen believed was the Order's purpose.

Even confiding his doubts to Hawke felt like a betrayal. Meredith told him repeatedly he was the only one she could trust, the only one who understood the danger mages posed and they must be vigilant and keep a watch on the others.

He had been flattered by his commanding officer's trust and confidences, at first ...

Hawke poked him. "Stop it," she said. "No going back into the dark places."

"How do you always know?"

"You get this wrinkle in the middle of your forehead," she said. "If you don't stop it, it'll stick and you'll look older than you are."

"I feel older."

"You've seen too much. We both have." She shrugged. "Want to go hit things with a sword until you forget about it?"

He choked. "What makes you think that will work?"

She shrugged. "How else did you get so good at killing things?"

"Everyone keeps _saying_ that!"


	8. Cullen Despairs & Evelyn Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chess is played, and Evelyn and Cullen consider playing with fire.

"What are you doing here?" Dorian gestured to the stairs. "Get down there and fight for your man!"

Evelyn buried her face in her hands. She made a mistake in giving Dorian an exact recounting of breakfast. Evelyn thought getting it off her chest would make her feel … less irritated. She should have anticipated his reaction.

"Do keep your voice down, Dorian," she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

"I'm fighting for love." He clasped his hands over his heart.

"Andraste's holy ass you are, you're worried about losing your entertainment."

"I never said the two were mutually exclusive," he said.

"Dorian, stop."

"The commander clearly is attracted to powerful, influential women. Hawke is competition."

"I've no interest in the prize," she whispered. "Dorian, if you insist on discussing this, would you please lower your voice?"

"Why are we discussing it when you should be down there, wresting him from her clutches?" he hissed under his breath.

 _Sweet Maker_. "He does have a say, you know. He’s not an object that can be stolen or given away." Although Hawke did her best to encourage Evelyn to take him. It was as if everyone was more worried about who she was -- or most definitely wasn't -- sleeping with than the ancient darkspawn magister with aspirations of godhood. She said as much to Dorian.

"This is small and manageable," he said. "Corypheus, not so much."

"So glad my choice of lovers is a distraction to you," she said.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Dorian said.

"In this case, it suits just fine."

Dorian eyed her critically. "Perhaps if you acted a touch more feminine."

Evelyn picked up a book and hefted it. The spine was at least three inches thick. It would do.

Dorian took a cautious step back. "What do you propose doing with that book?"

"I'm going to hit you if you don't stop with this silliness."

"And you thought a biography of Divine Galatea would do the trick?"

"It has a nice heft."

"I imagine so. She was Divine for a rather long time." Dorian cleared his throat. “You’ll ruin the book.”

“Don’t worry, we have twenty copies.”

“What are the two of you doing?” Cassandra stood at the top of the stairs, her hands on her hips. “Inquisitor, are you threatening Dorian with a book?” She frowned. “Do you want to borrow my sword?”

“The Inquisitor was just telling me she had breakfast with Hawke and the Commander,” Dorian said.

Cassandra shrugged. “Yes, I just saw them heading toward the sparring ring.”

“What did I tell you?” Dorian said.

“Dorian …” Evelyn held the book up so he knew she meant business.

“Hawke and the Commander were lovers in Kirkwall,” Dorian blurted.

“Dorian!” Evelyn’s cheeks were hot. She couldn’t believe he just said that aloud. She should have never told him. “I doubt he would appreciate you gossiping about his private life.”

“I know he wouldn’t.” Cassandra crossed her arms. “Cullen is a very private person. That’s why we should step back into that alcove, where it’s less likely Leliana will see or hear us.”

Evelyn offered a silent prayer for escape.

“Leliana probably already knows,” Dorian said.

“About their relationship, yes, but not that we’re discussing it,” Cassandra said.

“This is ridiculous,” Evelyn said.

Dorian breathlessly filled Cassandra with a blow-by-blow account.

“You don’t think Cullen knew where the Champion was while we were looking for her, do you?” Cassandra had a steely glint in her eyes.

“Not hardly,” Dorian said. “He loves rules more than you do, Seeker.”

Dorian and Cassandra finally found something they could agree on, and Evelyn wished they would go back to polite sniping at one another.

“What are we going to do about this?” Dorian asked.

“Nothing,” Evelyn said.

“I agree,” Cassandra said.

“Ugh.” Dorian shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“She is,” Evelyn said.

“I think Hawke is on our side,” Cassandra said.

“Ugh. You can’t be serious.” Evelyn buried her face in her hands again.

Dorian grinned. “She is.”

##

Cullen drank in the sight of Lady Evelyn: her profile, the way her hair brushed her cheek, the sweep of her eyelashes, how she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she planned her next move. He was so distracted he found himself in an early hole in their game and worked to catch up.

She concentrated so fiercely on the board he didn't have to guard against her catching him staring slack-jawed, like a boy recruit just off the farm from the far side of Ferelden.

He wanted to drag her across the table, upsetting the board and spilling pieces across the gazebo floor, settle her in his lap and kiss her breathless. At the same time, he didn't quite dare. He was infatuated, but she made her distaste clear early on. They settled into an uneasy truce since Haven. She asked a lot of questions about his childhood and templar training, but she only was polite.

They made small talk about the visiting dignitaries, which somehow led to a discussion of Antivan fencing, then to a spirited debate over whether Antivan port or Free Marcher whiskey was superior. Somehow, he confided he spent the entire voyage across the Waking Sea either sea sick or pacing the deck, unable to sleep in the cramped hold.

"By the time we disembarked, Cassandra was half-ready to throw me overboard," he said.

She laughed. He liked the sound. He couldn't recall her laughing often around him, and he wanted to hear more; much more.

"This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition -- or related matters," he said. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.” She had no idea how much of a distraction she posed. They limited their discussions to Inquisition business after their early friction, and he wished they sought common ground sooner.

“We should spend more time together.” A smile still played around her mouth.

"I would like that." It would drive him crazy, being so close to her and unable to confess his feelings, but it was far better than the alternative. If she wished to pursue a friendship, he couldn’t deny her -- he couldn’t deny her anything.

“Me, too,” she said.

"You said that." The urge to pull her into his arms was stronger than ever, and her blush did nothing to cool his ardor. It was impossible that she could ... but she said ...

She lowered her eyes and fiddled with a captured piece, turning it over in her hands.

"We should finish the game," he said, taking pity on her. "Right. My turn?"

He lifted a piece and considered the board. One move would mean victory, but another, riskier move would likely mean defeat within another three moves. She saw it, too. She leaned forward, intent on the board.

He took the second move and stifled his grin at her triumphant smile. She had him within two moves, but her joy in victory was worth it.

He sat back. "Well played. I believe this one is yours." He tried to reconcile her previous dislike with her desire to spend more time with him. He was eager to acquire more intelligence on the matter.

Hopefully, his little deception would ensure that he had the chance.

##

Evelyn scowled at the chess board. She liked puzzles, but she didn't have the patience to learn the more complex strategies. And her opponent was very skilled.

She turned her glare on the man across the board.

Dorian smirked. "Ready to give up?"

She picked up a piece, set it down, picked up a second, then set that down as well. "No."

"Has anyone told you that you are stubborn? And atrocious at chess?"

Evelyn brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Perhaps the first, but not the second." She moved a pawn, and Dorian promptly captured it. "I think you're cheating," she said.

Dorian laid a hand over his chest. "I don't cheat."

"How did I beat Ser Cullen, but haven't been able to beat you even once?"

His lips twitched. "Because Cullen cheated."

She took one of Dorian's grand clerics, and his empress took her templar. "No one cheats to lose, Dorian." She hated to lose. She sulked; it wasn't appropriate for a leader. Not that she wanted to be a leader, but when you were thrown into a situation, you made the best of it. Brenna would have told her not to let anyone see what it cost her. Evelyn bit her lip. She missed Brenna. She desperately needed her counsel.

"For every five times I play the commander, he wins three." Dorian examined the board.

"So he's better than you."

Dorian made his move, ignoring her aside. "You have never beat me. Not in twenty-three matches. Soon to be twenty-four. Yet, the only time you've played, you beat him. Now, if he's my equal, why do you suppose that is?"

"You're a skilled cheat."

He sighed. "You wound me to the quick, but no. Cullen let you win."

Dorian would have the game in five moves. "Why would he do that?" Ser Cullen was competitive. Actually, competitive was an understatement.

"Why don't you ask him?" Dorian said.

It was her turn to sigh. "I am avoiding him."

"It can't be easy. He is the commander of your armies."

She hated being reminded of all the lives for which she was responsible. She hadn't done well protecting those who needed her. Not at Haven, and not ... not before.

"He does seem to be perplexed," she said. Dorian said he would do anything for her, but she doubted. Ser Cullen didn't seem besotted. When she stumbled through yet another excuse to evade him,  he would would only stare after her, arms crossed, with a puzzled expression. She didn't suppose he learned the art of conversation under Ser Stannard in Kirkwall -- or many social niceties for that matter.

"You confuse the poor man." Dorian moved his own templar. "When you're not ogling him, you're running the other way. I must admit, I've become fond of him, despite his smugness. He's not a bad fellow."

"He's a templar."

Dorian gasped. "No?!"

"Dorian ..."

"I haven't seen him drag a single apostate to a Circle, and Skyhold is crawling with them. Are you _sure_ he's a templar?"

"Dorian!"

"He doesn't even wear the armor, and, come to think about it, that skirt has possibilities ..."

She ground her teeth. "Dorian."

He shrugged. "He doesn't behave as a templar does. Perhaps he has moved on. Maybe you should, too."

It wasn't the just the behavior; it was the mindset. And she doubted Ser Cullen could shed that as easily as templar armor. Evelyn sighed again as Dorian captured another pawn, menacing her emperor.

“Do you know what you need?” Dorian asked.

“Yes,” she said, hoping to head him off. “Corypheus defeated and a vacation somewhere warm and sunny.”

“And I’d like a healthy relationship with my father and an influential seat on the Magisterium.” Dorian moved his emperor. “What you want and what you need are two different things. What you _need_ is a one-night stand to relieve some tension.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “That’s a terrible idea. But, even if I entertained it for a moment, who would I have one with? There isn’t a single person in Skyhold who doesn’t know who I am, and we are several days travel from the nearest city of any size.”

She realized her mistake as soon as the words came out of her mouth.  

“Cullen,” Dorian said. “Handsome, discrete and devoted.”

She choked. “Do you have a few hours to listen to all the reasons that’s a bad idea?” But so appealing.

“You would get him out of your system. It can’t possibly be as good as you imagine it will be. Maybe it will even be mediocre. The pretty ones coast on their looks sometimes.”

Evelyn was surprised into a laugh. “Are you telling me I ought to have sex with him because he’ll be disappointing and I’ll be disillusioned?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “I can’t be as good as you’re imagining it will be. It never is.”

But … could it be? Evelyn shook her head. She was only entertaining Dorian’s suggestion because it encouraged her to do something she shouldn’t. “I don’t imagine anything of the sort, Dorian.”

He leaned forward, his smile wide and sharp. “Did you forget who shares a tent with you?” Dorian glanced down at the board. “Oh, and by the way? Checkmate.”

##

"Ser Jerran ... we must watch him. Closely." Meredith paced back and forth behind him, her step steady and measured. Endlessly circling like a harbor shark, but more dangerous.

"You suspect something?" Cullen asked.

"Suspicion keeps me alive." Her hand fell on his shoulder, and he stilled himself so he wouldn't shudder in the confines of his armor. She would know, and it would infuriate her.

And she was wearing gauntlets. If she hit him, it would hurt more than it ordinarily did.

"He has been seen in Lowtown, speaking to elves," Meredith said. "Those who have accepted the Qun. I mistrust them."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Watch him," she whispered in his ear.

He nodded. "Yes, Knight-Commander. It will be as you say. Shall I forbid him freedom of the city?"

"No. Let this ripen and see what fruit it bears. There will be co-conspirators. There are always co-conspirators. Find out who he is meeting and why. I want names. If they plan to move against us … their screams will break their throats.”

“It will be as you command.”

"We must be ever-vigilant. You are the only one I can trust, Cullen. The rest of them think they understand the dangers, but they have never seen the depth of depravities of which mages are capable." She resumed her pacing.

He nodded. It was knowledge dearly bought and, as such, he would do whatever necessary to spare his templars. "I understand, knight-commander."

She stopped behind him, her hands on his shoulders. "It isn't their fault. They can not help what they are any more than wolves can, but that makes them no less dangerous. If you burn your hand, you do not blame the flame. It is its nature to burn. It is your own fault for forgetting fire's nature." Her fingers brushed his cheek and he held himself still and kept his expression blank.

He thought her a mother-figure when he first arrived ... not now.

"Mages all hold the potential for destruction, like the Qunari's gaatlock. Put the proper fuse to it, and it goes off. Sometimes, it goes off for no discernible reason. So do mages. They are inherently flawed and vulnerable to corruption. For the sake of innocents, and the sake of the mages themselves, we must watch them closely. They are not people, Cullen. Not like us.”

“No, they are not, knight-commander.” Normal people didn’t have monsters exploding out of their flesh, dribbling shreds of their former selves as they advanced on you … Cullen shook his head, wanting to banish those memories while knowing it was impossible. Even the lyrium madness might not be enough to erase them.

Meredith’s thumb ghosted over the nape of his neck, and goose flesh ran down his spine. Still; he had to be very still.

“They are such pitiable creatures,” Meredith said. “But you must never become soft or overly fond.”

“I won’t,” he promised. The truth was he didn’t like to be in the same room as mages. It made him deeply uneasy, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Kinloch. Large groups of mages inspired something dark and panicked as he remembered how they came for him. He had been overwhelmed by their enthralled templars when he hesitated to strike.

The thralls had been his brothers- and sisters-in-arms, and he had grown up with some of them and been mentored by others. Cullen made the mistake of trying to reason with them, although all his training said it couldn’t be done. He ignored his training and the consequences had been savage.

Cullen would never forget the mage’s faces as they crowded him, their smiles mocking and their eyes alight with malicious glee as they told him just how they would break him. He had liked many of them and suspected none of blood magic. Experience was a bitter teacher.

“Vigilance,” Meredith said, and he was drawn out of his poisonous thoughts. “Constant vigilance and strict adherence to firm discipline. For their sakes, and ours.” Meredith smiled down on him, and her expression was almost tender. “But you know that already, don’t you, Cullen?”

“Yes, knight-commander, I do.”

 

Cullen sat up slowly, his head throbbing as red flashed across his vision in time with every beat of his heart. He exhaled through his nose and rubbed tiredly at his temples. The worst of his withdrawal symptoms were accompanied by dreams of Kinloch or Meredith.

He wasn’t sure which was worse. Meredith succeeded in breaking and twisting him while the Kinloch mages did not. And he had not only allowed it, but participated fully in his own corruption. His arrogance in believing he knew everything worth knowing about mages was breathtaking.

_If you burn your hand, you do not blame the flame._

Cullen spent so long being afraid and angry. The weight was exhausting, but he didn’t know he carried it until he released it. He had not realized how his memory and imagination circled back again and again to Kinloch until he freed himself from the obsessive spiral. He had to make an effort to turn his thoughts away, and Cullen was surprised to find how often the sound of a crashing door or a woman’s laugh would make him stiffen, his heart race and shorten his breath.

He still found himself drawn back into the darkness too often. He could not free himself of it by force of will alone. Cullen found talking with Cassandra helped. Even Cole’s strange, fumbling attempts helped. His work, the company of his fellow advisors, overseeing the troops: They all helped.

He kept himself busy, because even when he averted thoughts of Kinloch and Kirkwall, the lyrium sang to him. Its song echoed in his skull and vibrated in the marrow of his bones. It was inescapable. It was a background noise on the good days, and so loud and persistent on the bad he despaired.

Cullen thought -- prayed -- the bad days were fewer and farther between. The lyrium was burning away with every muscle tremor and headache. He had to believe that.

And there was something he found more distracting than even the lyrium song now.     

_It is its nature to burn._

He threw back the blankets and shivered at the chill in the air, but welcomed it. It meant he was awake, no longer caught in the thorny tangle of his dark dreams. He rose, broke the thin scrim of ice over the water pitcher and washed his face.

He wanted to believe that Meredith’s final betrayal woke him from his madness, but he knew all too well his predilection toward addiction and obsession. He dressed quickly and with economy. Cullen wanted to review the troops at their morning drills before the day’s meetings began.

He found himself looking forward to the meetings, but his motives weren’t the good of the Inquisition.

He wondered if he had traded one addiction for another.

_It is your own fault for forgetting fire's nature._


	9. Cullen's Confused & Evelyn's Chagrined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is the center of attention, and this makes Evelyn feel some kinda way.

She didn’t see Cole, and he wasn’t announced among her companions. She wasn’t surprised, but she was concerned. She found him in the library, hiding in the shadows, while searching for clues for the assassin’s identity.

“Cole, have you been here the entire time?” The rest of her party were distracting the nobles -- Ser Cullen garnered a large crowd of admirers, to her amusement -- and keeping watch on the buffet. Cole likely would have preferred staying at Skyhold, given all the Orlesians’ machinations and misery, and guilt needled her.

“Masks under masks,” he muttered. “They take their faces off after they die and keep them, because they have none of their own.”

“Are you alright, Cole?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We should go back to Skyhold. There are knives within smiles here.”

She thought to use Cole’s abilities to her advantage, but didn’t consider how a ball full of back-biting Orlesians would affect him.

“I want to help,” Cole said, picking up on her doubt and anxiety.

“You do help, Cole,” she said firmly. “I will need your help soon.” She hoped it wouldn’t come down to pitched battle in the Winter Palace, but, if it did, Cole was quick with a blade. “If I need you, I will call for you,” she promised.

She should be wary of Cole -- he claimed he was once a demon -- but she couldn’t help feeling protective. He looked like a young teenager, but he was as bewildered as any child away from home for the first time. He reminded her of herself, when she first came to the Circle.

Demons were accomplished liars, but she couldn’t forget he helped her battle Envy. Perhaps she was a fool -- mages wiser than she were tricked by patient demons -- but Cole talked to his shoelaces. It was difficult to see him as a threat. Wondering whether his naivety was a ruse to lower her guard made her paranoid.

“We will leave as soon as the empress is safe.”

She was walking away when he said, “Cullen shouldn’t be here, either.”

She jerked to a stop like a dog who reached the end of its leash and hated the mere mention of him could command her attention. “Why is that, Cole?”

“He wants, but he doesn’t. He can’t, but he could. He doesn’t want to live, but he can’t give up and die.”

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “Are you talking about the desire demon, Cole?”

“It used to be Purpose,” he said. “Uldred pulled and twisted it into Desire.”

“Why would a ball make him -- oh.” At least Cole was the only witness to her stupidity. The nobles surrounded him, flirted with him, didn’t take no for an answer. On her last trip through the ballroom, she swore one groped him.

“Maker’s breath,” she snarled. She hurried to the library doors, but forced herself to take a deep breath and proceed at a normal pace through the vestibule and into the ballroom. The eyes of the court were on her. She exchanged pleasantries, all the while wanting to shove the simpering jackasses out of the way so she could rescue her commander.

… who looked perfectly fine and deep in discussion with a raving beauty.

She would kill him, as soon as she rescued him from the beautiful woman coyly touching his arm and thrusting her cleavage at him.

Not only would she kill him, she would kill him slowly.

“Ser.” She struggled to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Yes?” His mouth was a grim line.

“I’m sorry to take you from your admirers, but I have need of you.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” He bowed to the gathered nobles, then followed.

Leliana raised her eyebrows in inquiry as they passed, but Evelyn shook her head.

“Inquisitor?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

“You needed a break.”

They passed into the vestibule.

“Was I that obvious?” he said.

She took the stairs down to the lower level and the private alcoves below. “No. In fact, you looked like you were about to swan dive into that Orlesian’s dress.”

“You couldn’t possibly think -- ” He shook his head and turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “You do.” He paced. “You thought I enjoyed -- that I wanted -- ” He turned on his heel and gave her a once over. “You’re _jealous_ ,” he said, incredulous.

She crossed her arms. “Not hardly. Do not flatter yourself, ser.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t flirting with anyone. I was calculating my odds of escape. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved. Thank you for my rescue, Lady Inquisitor.”

She doubted his relief was greater than what he must have felt being rescued from Kinloch Hold, but he was relaxed and smiling, so she didn’t remark on it. “I’m pleased to have helped you escape their clutches, then.” She paused. “Are you … ?” She didn’t know how to ask him whether Cole was right and this would feature in a new nightmare.

“I’m fine,” he assured her, laughter fading from his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. We have to stop the assassin. That’s all that matters.”

She wanted to press her fingers to his lips and stop the flood of false assurances. The idea was oddly seductive.

“You also matter.”

There were shadows under his eyes, his jaw was clenched and his shoulders were tense. He brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Stopping Corypheus is the only thing that matters.”

She closed her eyes. Andraste preserve her, she had fallen for the most notorious templar in Thedas.

##

 _Hush and just look pretty_.

Cullen fumed through the rest of the meeting. He avoided reminders of the Winter Palace and the nobles who didn't understand the meaning of no. Apparently, some of them had yet to give up their pursuit. He ground his teeth.

Leliana teased, but Cullen had woken up three nights running with his fist crammed in his mouth to muffle his cries so his traveling companions wouldn't hear. He had been glad of his gloves, because they covered where he bruised and broke the skin. Nothing could hide his pallor and exhaustion, especially not from Cassandra's sharp eyes. She gave him a second look, but let it lie when he shook his head.

He didn't want their pity or worry. He should have moved on from his torment in Ferelden by now, but he couldn't, and he was ashamed.

The meeting finally, mercifully came to an end.

"Commander, if I could speak to you, please?" Lady Evelyn said.

"Of course, Inquisitor." He held the door for Josephine and Leliana, who smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows as she passed.

He flushed. Damn her and damn the nobles who wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Commander, if you would escort me to my quarters?"

Cullen flushed again and damned himself. He acted like a bumbling boy around Lady Evelyn. Cullen didn't have to guess the reason for his preoccupation. His infatuation had deepened into something more.

Her standoffish behavior disguised a woman who cared as much about the common soldier as Cullen. She went out of her way to assist those who had nothing to offer but their gratitude and wanted no acknowledgement. He avoided examining his feelings for her; they were complex and hopeless.

They walked through Josephine's office in silence. When they reached the great hall without a word, he could no longer restrain his curiosity -- not that he restrained himself in regard to Lady Evelyn.

"You wished to speak to me?"

"All in due time, Ser Cullen."

Cullen contented himself with being in her presence without the press of work. He held the door to her quarters, acutely aware of curious eyes. He didn't doubt the courtiers wondered what business took him to her private rooms. Cullen wondered himself.

They were halfway up the stairs when she spoke. "I will talk to Leliana. You will not be used as bait, Commander."

Cullen stiffened. "I don't mean to imply -- that is, if it will help the Inquisition --"

"No, Ser Cullen." Her expression softened. "You endured enough on the Inquisition's behalf at the ball."

"It was nothing." But he couldn't deny the flood of relief. His shoulders relaxed.

"Must you make me repeat myself?" She paused at the top of the stairs and turned. He stood several steps lower, and they were eye-to-eye. "You matter, Ser Cullen."

She said the same at the ball ... and he would swear she was jealous of the attention paid him. The only attention he sought was hers, and it frustrated him she didn't realize that.

"I would be ... relieved, my lady. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She crossed the room and opened a set of Orleasian doors. "Oh -- I meant to ask. At the ball, they named you Cullen Stanton Rutherford?"

He hovered at the top of the stairs, unsure whether she meant for him to follow her or not. "That is my name, Inquisitor."

She smiled, and there was something wicked in it. "Stanton?"

He cleared his throat, suspecting he was somehow out of his depth. "It's my middle name."

"I had assumed so." Her voice was rich with amusement.

"It's a family name," he offered. He took a single step toward her, still unsure. He didn't dare presume anything.

He wondered if she could consider a relationship with even an ex-templar, given the things she may have seen or endured in the Circle. His templar brothers and sisters weren't kind to mages, and many were cruel. Lady Evelyn didn't trust him. She might even fear him. Cullen would do anything to protect her, but perhaps she only wanted him to leave her alone. He couldn't deny her. Cullen would grant her anything in his power.

But she smiled at him, her eyes full of mischief, not fear. "It is a bit pretentious. It doesn't suit you."

" ... thank you, my lady." He wasn't sure if it was a compliment.

"I can't think of a word that suits you less than pretentious." She sauntered back toward the stairs, tilting her head to look up at him.

Cullen swallowed. "Thank you." He couldn't think of anything else to say.  She was only an arm's-length away, and the way she looked at him ... Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.

"No," she murmured, her eyes languid and her lips parted. "Perhaps stubborn, but not pretentious. Never pretentious."

He took the step that closed the distance between them. "Thank you," he breathed.

Cullen wanted to brush his thumb over her lower lip, but he didn't have permission. He wanted to touch her. Moreover, he wanted her to desire his touch, to ask for it ... even beg for it.  

"You're welcome." Her eyes were half-lidded and she was flushed. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, and her breasts heaved with her quickened breath.

Could she ... ?

Perhaps he read more into it than was there. He never was good at flirting, and after so long a period of disinterest, even those skills he once had were rusty.

"Do you require anything else of me?" He wanted her to say yes, she required much more of him. Cullen wanted her to invite him into her bed. He had lovers before, but pursued none. He hadn't wanted to choose for himself in a long time. He would choose her, if he could.

She shook her head as if coming out of a trance or waking from a deep sleep. "I ... no, thank you, Ser Cullen."

He exhaled, nodded and turned to leave. "As it pleases you, Inquisitor." It was wishful thinking; he knew better. He aspired to that which he could not have.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cullen looked up. She stood on the landing, biting her lip and watching him.

He hesitated, unsure what she wanted of him. She said one thing, but her actions indicated something else. It was confusing ... but also oddly hopeful.

He would wait for a clear yes or no from her, in case he imagined something that wasn't there.

"My lady." He bowed shallowly, then slipped out the door.

He would treat this like a game of chess. Cullen would be patient; it was one of his few virtues. He could wait until she revealed her endgame.

##

"I threw myself at him, Dorian." Her voice was muffled. She laid flat on her face on her bed, hiding her blush in a pillow. "He just stood there like a well-armored stick in the mud. 'Is there anything I can kill or maim for you, Inquisitor?'"

"He _is_ rather good at killing things," Dorian said from the chaise by the stairs.

"'Anything you need?' he asks, and I said no. What was I thinking?" she railed into the pillow. "I was thinking he couldn't possibly be so dense as to miss the hints I was dropping. No, not dropping -- hurling at his head. How can anyone be so clueless?"

"You should have told him you needed him in your bed," Dorian said. "I would have given my father's seat on the Magisterium to see his face."

"What do I have to do, beg?"

"Well, he does have that authoritarian thing going for him." Dorian paused. "It likely wouldn't hurt."

Evelyn sat up. "You're joking."

Dorian shrugged.

"This is a terrible idea," she said.

"I still think you should get it out of your system. Then you can move on."

She eyed him with suspicion. "It is a terrible idea. I can't believe I listened to you. A one-night stand would only complicate things. Anyway, he doesn't strike me as the sort of person who indulges in such things."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "You don't know what he indulges in."

"It would only complicate our professional relationship." She hugged a pillow to her chest.

"Or you would realize you're wonderfully suited for one another and live happily ever after."

She glared at him. "He's a templar."

"Oh? I don't believe you have mentioned that. Or I would have pointed out he's an ex-templar."

She fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what to do." She bit her lip. "I ... I think I've fallen for him, Dorian. How did it even happen?" Her attraction to him was undeniable -- her pulse quickened just thinking about Ser Cullen -- but she was unable to pinpoint when it became more than causal lust. She could have ignored that. "There are a dozen reasons to walk away. He was knight-captain in Kirkwall. Not to mention how disastrous it could potentially be for the Inquisition."

"There are a dozen reasons to walk away and one good one to pursue it," Dorian said.

She sighed. "If you start going on about fate and soulmates and other nonsense, I'm not going to listen."

"He's in love with you, Evelyn. His face lights up when you walk into the room."

"Shut up."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "You're too busy pretending not to notice him to notice."

"I would notice if someone was in love with me, Dorian."

"Of course you would." He didn't sound convinced.

"I'm not clueless."

"Of course you're not." He made a point of looking anywhere but at her. "Not at all, Inquisitor. No one would ever mistake _you_ for clueless." Dorian didn't do subtle.

"What are you implying? That we are infatuated with each other, neither one of us aware of the other's feelings? I think I’ve made mine clear." She would die of shame if Ser Cullen pretended misunderstanding to avoid turning her down.

Dorian cleared his throat. "Something along those lines. But I wouldn't say infatuated."

"What would you say?" She didn't bother to hide her irritation.

He smiled. "I would say in love. I couldn't imagine two more unlikely people. You might have a stick up your ass, but the Commander has an entire tree. Possibly even a forest."

"You make us sound like characters out of one of Varric's books." She didn't appreciate the comparison. Drama was fine between the pages of a book, but not in her life.

"Not a bad analogy. Speaking of Varric's books, I'm surprised the commander read Swords and Shields, yet managed to miss all your cues."

Evelyn made a rude noise. "He did not."

"Cassandra gave him a copy."

She buried her face in her hands. "She didn't."

"She did." His satisfaction was obvious.

"When did you two become co-conspirators?"

"When we realized we had a common goal," he said.

"To think I once wished you'd stop nitpicking each other."

"Don't worry, once we gain our objective, we'll go back to irritating each other."

"Yet another reason to avoid Ser Cullen," she said.

"You can hardly do that, he's your commander."

"You know what I mean. And he's not my commander."

Dorian laughed. "All right, Inquisitor. I still think you should tell him how you feel. You need to be direct. He's a direct sort of person."

"The implications for the Inquisition, Dorian!" she said.

"Damn the Inquisition," Dorian said. "I'm not worried about the Inquisition, I'm worried about my friend. You had saving the whole damn world dumped in your lap without a by-your-leave; polite southern society treats you slightly better than a pariah, simply because you're a mage; you have a mark on your hand even the oldest texts in Minrathous can't identify; the number of demons you take on would make an experienced knight-commander blanch; and you're on a course to confront a thousand-year-old magister with a pet dragon that might be an archdemon!" Dorian's fists were clenched. "You deserve happiness wherever you can find it."

Her annoyance evaporated in the face of Dorian's concern. "Oh, I don't know," she said playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "Surely, I'm considered rather better than a pariah. Look at all the marriage proposals I've received."

"And not a single one of them will look at you the way Cullen does."

She sucked in a breath. "Dorian ..."

"Do you have any idea how rare and fine it is to be loved, truly loved, for yourself?" He shook his head. "There are people who would give anything to be looked at like that." Dorian's pain was ever close to the surface, covered with a paper-thin carefree attitude.

She moved to the chaise and put an arm around his shoulders. "Someday, you will meet someone who looks at your many, many flaws--" Dorian choked back a laugh, and Evelyn tightened her hug "-- and doesn't love you in spite of them, but because of them, because they're not flaws to him, but part of what makes you the man he loves."

He snorted. "And I'm the one full of romantic nonsense." He paused. "If you think for a minute that he would be any less dedicated to keeping you alive and whole if you were a couple ..."

"What if it doesn't work, Dorian?"

"He served Meredith for years. I imagine that, jilted lover or not, you're better. Marginally."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't think he'd turn me down, even if he wanted to -- I'm the Inquisitor."

"I think you underestimate your commander's capacity for stubbornness. Why, just the other day, I beat him at chess, and he stared at the board for a good ten minutes, searching for a way to escape defeat, before finally conceding."

"He thinks I'm the Herald of Andraste. I know he believes a lot of ridiculous things, but that's the silliest one yet."

"It could be sillier," Dorian said. "He could think I'm the Herald."

"You would make a dashing Herald."

"Speaking of dashing, I promised Bull I would meet him for a drink."

"Oh, really?" She struggled to hide her smile.

"No matchmaking!" He shook a finger.

Said the pot to the kettle. "Of course not."

Dorian stood. "You really are terrible at lying. I'll have to have Bull give you a few lesson."

"Something to bring up at your ... meeting." She followed him to the top of the stairs.

"Don't get excited; it's only a friendly drink."

"I'm not." She was.

He stopped halfway down the staircase. "Evelyn?"

"Yes?"

"Remember: Be direct."

If only it were so easy.


	10. Cullen's Secretive & Evelyn's a Sleuth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The west wing is forbidden, and Evelyn is determined to find out what Cullen is hiding there. Hint: It's not a rose.

Evelyn cursed the stairs under her breath. She was used to a good deal of walking -- it saved the horses -- but this keep had more stairs than a dog had fleas. 

If she managed to survive Corypheus, these stairs would kill her. 

"Boss," Bull greeted her. He leaned against the templar tower, watching the garden below. 

"I've been looking for you," she said. "It's about Dorian --"

"I know."

Bull focused on the garden. She knew damn well he had perfect mastery over his expressions and was an expert in misdirection -- and he knew she was looking for him. This was something he wanted her to see. 

She put aside her intended interrogation to focus on the garden. The faithful and the priests who found their way to Skyhold --  _ despite _ the Grand Clerics' cries of heretic -- prayed, strolled, talked among themselves, meditated or recited the Chant of Light. 

Among them was a figure she couldn't miss: the height, the blond hair, those silly fur pauldrons that looked like a frightened cat fluffing its fur up to make itself look bigger. 

Whatever Bull meant for her to see was completely lost on her -- once she spotted Cullen, she had eyes for nothing else. This unrequited crush was ridiculous. He didn’t even want her to touch him. But, Maker, how delicious it felt when she soothed his headache until he begged her to stop … 

He spoke briefly to Mother Giselle, then crossed to the gazebo. Perhaps he would meet Dorian for a game of chess. No, he went through the gazebo to the far wall. He produced a key, opened a door and entered, shutting the door behind him.

"He goes there everyday," Bull said. "Different times and different paths. The door is kept locked, but a guard rotates in and out of there every eight hours. Wonder what he has in there."

Bull wasn't the only one. "Alright, I've seen. Now, about Dorian … "

“Yes?” Now Bull’s face was perfectly blank.

She leaned into him and smiled. “If you hurt him, even the smallest bit, I will festoon the great hall’s chandeliers with your guts. It would look quite fetching, I think.”

He laughed and clapped her on the back. “I would expect nothing less, Boss. Now if it was the other way around … ?”

She scoffed. “He adores you.”

Bull smiled slowly, a wicked glint in his eye. “That so?”

“What do you think?” 

After all, what was a little nudge among friends?

##

She stood in front of his desk, hands clasped and eyes downcast.

“Cullen,” she said, the sound of his name on her lips a caress. “Cullen, I have something to confess to you.” He could count on one hand the number of times she used only his given name, and she made it sound like a benediction.

“Cullen, I need to tell you --”

No. She would never be so timid.

They stood at the war table.

“Cullen,” she said, “if you would accompany me?” She gestured to the door, looking back at him over her shoulder.

Aware of Leliana and Josephine’s curious stares, he crossed the room and offered her his arm. His heart was in his throat as they took the stairs to the second floor, then exited to the balcony above the gardens. His head swam with the smell of her perfume, light and sweet. The prayers of the faithful sounded like a chorus.

“My lady -- ”

She pulled him down for a kiss, hungry and demanding, holding him in place with her hands fisted in his pauldrons, but he didn’t want to escape …

The door opened with a bang, and Cullen, drowsing, jumped. “What!?” he snarled.

Leliana leaned against the door jam. “It was late, and I saw your light still on.” She gestured to the remains of his dinner and the papers scattered across his desk. “Have you left your office at all this afternoon?”

“There were drills earlier today.” He rubbed his face.

“Yesterday,” Leliana corrected him. She cocked her head. She missed nothing, and he felt like a hare under the hawk’s regard. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Only a lingering headache.”

She looked him over, then nodded. “Get some rest, Commander. Morning comes early.”

He stood, rolling his shoulders. He was sore. “Goodnight, Leliana.”

“You as well.” Her smile was knowing, and he hoped she didn’t have half the powers attributed to her.

##

"For our next book, I propose High Seas and High Passions," Josephine said. "It's taken Antiva by storm." 

The four women -- the Skyhold book club --  lounged on Evelyn's balcony, enjoying the fresh mountain air. Cassandra was reluctant to meet in the castle's public areas since Ser Cullen walked in on them. They were assured privacy here, and the view was breathtaking.  

These quarters were starkly different from Evelyn’s sparse cell at the Circle, and Evelyn was restless and unable to sleep many nights, wondering where the other Ostwick mages sheltered. She doubted it was as luxurious.

Evelyn leaned forward. "That sounds interesting. What is it about?"

"A pirate prince who falls in love with his captive," Josephine said.

"I've heard of that one," Cassandra said. "It received four fluttered scarves out of five in the Randy Dowager."

Evelyn wasn't surprised Cassandra read the Dowager, given her reading preferences, but the mental image still amused. Since Cassandra was defensive about her softer side, Evelyn hid her smile.

"The Dowager is reliable in such matters," she said. 

She wasn't particular about what they read. Most of Evelyn's prior reading had been confined to arcane tomes. One didn't find too many romance novels in the Circle, and it was a pity. Something light-hearted would have been an escape.

She also found herself enjoying sharing the experience, huddling close to the fire with Cassandra for a precious few pages in the field before they turned in for the night and knowing Leliana and Josephine were fitting a few minutes here and there in their schedules back in Skyhold to do the same, and anticipating the group discussions.

"It's decided, then," Leliana said. She stood and stretched, lithe and cat-like. "Josie, will you send for copies for everyone?"

"Of course." Josephine made a note. "As enjoyable as this always is ..."

Evelyn smiled and stood. "I know. We all have things to do."

"Inquisitor." Josephine nodded and descended the stairs. Leliana caught her on the second stair, and the two of them discussed an unreasonable lord and how the problem should be solved in low voices as they disappeared from view. 

"Cassandra, could you wait a moment?" Evelyn said. 

Cassandra stopped at the top of the stairs. "Of course, Inquisitor. Is there something you need?"

Evelyn took a deep breath. She was eaten up by curiosity over Ser Cullen's secret, but she had no wish to reveal the depth of her interest to Cassandra. However, if Ser Cullen confided in anyone, it would be Cassandra. 

Evelyn was jealous of their friendship and loathe to admit it. She wanted to be as at ease in Ser Cullen's company as Cassandra. It would solve a host of problems. 

"Cassandra, there is something under guard and lock and key in the west wing, and I wondered if you knew anything about it?" The west wing was uninhabitable, although it appeared sturdy from without, according to the quartermaster's report. 

The Inquisition's coin and labor was better spent on more readily repairable parts of the fortress, the report read. Ser Cullen had assessed the wing and written the report -- not the master builder. It must be in terrible condition for a man who slept beneath a gaping hole in the roof to deem it uninhabitable. 

Yet it was secure enough to keep a secret.

Cassandra wouldn’t meet Evelyn’s eyes, adjusting her gauntlets instead. 

“Cassandra?” 

Cassandra smoothed her gauntlets.

“I’m assuming that means you do know.”

Cassandra sighed. “I do not mean to keep anything from you, Inquisitor, but you should ask Cullen about it.” 

So Ser Cullen  _ was _ keeping something in the west wing. Evelyn wanted to know what and why it was kept from her.

“You aren’t going to tell me?” Evelyn said.

“Again, it is something that you should ask Cullen about.”

“Why?”

“Just ask him.”

Evelyn would at the next opportunity, and she would make sure that opportunity was soon. Maker help the man if he hid something from her.

##

Cassandra walked into Cullen’s office and dismissed Rylen’s runners brusquely. 

Cullen sat back and waited for her explanation. The last time he saw her so agitated was when they believed they lost Lady Evelyn after Haven. 

Cassandra paced back and forth, fidgeting with her gauntlets. “The Inquisitor suspects something, Cullen. You must go to her and confess, before she learns the truth for herself.”

Cullen frowned. The idea of telling her this, now, was unthinkable. He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“You should have told her from the first,” Cassandra said.

“We did not know her character at the beginning,” Cullen said. “I didn’t confide in her, but you chained her.”

Cassandra scowled. “You knew my reasons.”

“And disagreed. She was unarmed, imprisoned and surrounded by guards -- including you and Leliana.”

Cassandra continued to pace. “I was wrong. I admit that, but there was so much we didn’t know. And I have apologized.” She gave him a pointed look.

“For the same reasons you chained her, I didn’t tell her.”

“You can no longer plead ignorance of her character, Cullen.”

“After so long … I don’t know if I can.” Lady Evelyn would be furious he kept this from her so long. He could not bear her anger -- or worse, her disappointment. 

It was easy to justify it to himself in the beginning, but as he grew to know her and care for her, Cullen knew he should have told her from the beginning. She might not have understood his reasons -- nor would she approve or agree -- but at least he wouldn’t have this secret hanging over his head.

“It’s too late now,” he said. He passed on so many opportunities to do the right thing. This was only the latest in a long line of failures. He wanted to believe he changed, but it wasn’t enough.

Cassandra shook her head. “No, when she finds out on her own, it will be too late.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “How can I even begin?”

“On your head be it, then,” Cassandra said. 

Yes, on his head be it. 

##

“What would you do if someone was keeping something from you?” Evelyn curled up in the window seat in Sera’s cozy room, cradling a cup of tea and enjoying the warmth against her fingers and the scent of the flowers lazily nodding outside the window. 

“That’s daft,” Sera said. “Someone keep something from  _ me _ ?” 

“I suppose that’s true.” Evelyn sipped her tea. She liked it here. It was full of books, flowers and light, all things she loved. A pity she was never able to stay long. 

“What’s got a bee in your bonnet, anyhow?” Sera perched next to her, eyes bright with curiosity.

Evelyn shifted. She trusted Sera, but she didn’t know if Ser Cullen would trust Sera with his secrets. Of course, now that Sera knew there was something to be discovered, she would be relentless in pursuit of the truth. Sera was an exceptional hunter. “I don’t know …”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sera said reproachfully. 

Evelyn bit her lip. Sera’s trust was hard earned and she didn’t want Sera to think Evelyn didn’t trust her. But again, it wasn’t her secret to reveal and she wasn’t even sure what the secret was. “You won’t say anything?”

Sera scoffed. “Share your secrets? Not on your life.” 

That earned a smile. Once she earned Sera’s trust, she also earned her loyalty and it was fierce. “I don’t know why, but Ser Cullen is hiding something in the west wing. Cassandra knows and won’t tell me, and he’s avoiding me.”

Sera’s eyebrows shot up. “That jackboot? Secrets? Hmm.” She plucked at her lower lip. “West wing is falling down anyhow. I bet I could pick the locks no problem, but we’ll probably just find his stash of hair stuff.”

“I’m afraid it’s rather more than that -- I can’t imagine he’d use Inquisition soldiers to guard it otherwise.”

Sera’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Then it’s a challenge, innit? And I thought it’d just be a boring burglary.” She rubbed her hands together. “We’ll get past them, no worries.” She jumped up and peered at the rows of vials and flasks on the bookcase.

“No worries” did worry her, as did Sera’s collection of volatile chemicals.

"I don't know, Sera. They're Inquisition soldiers."

"Don't you want to know what General Uptight has in there?"

"Yes, but I don't want to poison or explode anyone." At least not someone she was supposed to protect.

"It's not poison, anyhow.” Sera picked up a flask and held it up to the light. “This will just make them a bit gassy. Do you want to know or not?"

Evelyn bit her lip. "Not if it makes them sick."

Sera sighed in exasperation. "It won't make them sick -- I mean, yeah, they'll feel like they're going to be sick, but they'll just play the butt trumpet. It doesn't last long."

Evelyn choked on her tea, and Sera slapped her on the back and warned her not to get tea all over her pillows.

When she finally got her coughing under control, she said, "alright, Sera, I'm game. But I'll need you to pick the lock as well."

Sera rubbed her hands together and smiled gleefully. "Just let me do it. We should leave something else in there. That would give the soldiers a laugh."

"What would you suggest we leave?"

"A duck."

"A duck?"

"Can you imagine his face?" Sera giggled.

Evelyn imagined Ser Cullen face-to-beak with an irritable waterfowl, and her lips twitched. It would certainly be interesting. "I'll consider it."

##

Cullen crossed the inner bailey, the forge -- and Lady Evelyn -- falling further behind with each step. 

She knew now. 

He kept it from her, a wall between them. He so badly wanted to go to her free of lyrium's hold. He would have kept his struggle from her. It had been so long, yet he had not broken the drug's hold. The fear he might never escape it lurked at the back of his mind. 

Cullen endured addiction for a decade, but he could not endure the thought of disappointing Lady Evelyn. That she knew his shame and continued failure was worse than withdrawal.

And the withdrawal was miserable. The headaches, fevers, shakes and muscle cramps were bad, and the nightmares and hallucinations were worse. The thought he would never escape them haunted him. He was on the verge of breaking, regardless of what Cassandra said.

If it continued to worsen …

He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose; a headache was building again, and black roses bloomed before his eyes. This time would be very bad. He couldn’t think about that now. The weight of misery was too much. 

He took the stairs to his quarters two at a time, his breath whistling between his cracked and parched lips. Cullen shut the door firmly behind him. He wanted no visitors. He felt caged in his own skin and never wanted so badly to be anyone other than himself. 

Cullen strode across the room and yanked open a desk drawer so violently a mug and candlestick tumbled from the desktop. They clattered against the floor, making a racket, and Cullen clenched his teeth as the pain behind his eyes exploded. He picked up the box with trembling hands and set it on his desk.

If the withdrawal continued to worsen … 

He flipped it open, ignoring the faded image of Andraste. What he wanted -- what he needed -- was within the box itself. Already, he could hear its song. It was so loud, even now, after so many months. Cullen sang the Chant, but the lyrium song drowned it out so often. 

It had been so long, and still the lyrium sang so loudly, so sweetly. He ached to be free of its hold -- nearly as much as he ached to feel its fire once more. Cullen braced his hands on the desk, bowing his head. How long? How long? 

He told himself and anyone who asked he could endure the pain, but he did not know if he could endure  _ unending _ pain. His joints ached, grinding like broken glass, and Cullen feared he would be unable to fulfill his duties soon. If only Cassandra could see that. 

If there was no end to this … 

If there was no end to this, he had gone through it all for nothing. If he could not succeed, then he suffered only for pride’s sake. 

What did he have to be proud of? He reached out and caressed the glass vial. The lyrium song deepened, sweetened. Perhaps it was only his imagination. 

But it seemed so real. 

He closed his eyes, trembling. He could have it. No one needed to know. It wouldn’t take long to prepare it; five minutes, no more. It might ward off the incipient headache lurking in his temples. He stroked the bottle. 

One dose to ward off a headache would become another, then lyrium every time he felt one coming on until he was taking it as often as not. Then, he might as well take it every day; just in case.  It would be difficult to stop once he started down that path, and it would become clear to all he failed. 

It would become clear to his templars that all they could hope is they would not forget themselves before the end. Cullen pulled his hand away from the vial as if it burned him. 

He clenched his fists. Andraste preserve him, he would endure this!

##

Evelyn shifted, trying to get comfortable. A Terror demon had slapped her into next week and everything ached. 

“Are you going to be rolling around all night?” Dorian asked. 

“Maybe.” 

“If you didn’t insist on casting so close to the action, it wouldn’t have caught you.”

Her shoulder hurt, and she rolled onto her stomach. 

“You  _ are _ going to spend all night rolling around. I’ll get that salve.” He cursed under his breath as he wiggled out from his bedroll into the chill night air, despite the meager protection offered by their tent.

Evelyn sat up, the muscles in the small of her back protesting. Dorian fretted over putting salve on her back since he realized she was injured. He wouldn’t rest until he saw to it. Evelyn gingerly pulled her arms out of her sleeves, and Dorian pushed her shirt up so he could spread his salve over the bruises on her back, shoulders and arms. 

“You were worried about Cole,” Dorian murmured. “Don’t think I didn’t see you running over there like your ass was on fire when you thought he was overwhelmed. You know you don’t need to be that close to cast and it saves you the running. A blessing, because you gasp like a fish out of water if you’ve got to run more than a few meters at a time.” 

“I’m doing better.” Evelyn closed her eyes. Dorian was right; his salve wasn’t magic, but it was damn near. It was already soothing the pain and relaxing tight muscles.

“You’ve toughened up quite a bit,” Dorian admitted. “In some ways.”

“Some ways?”

“Cole noticed you running over there to protect him, too. He fought all the harder for it,” Dorian said.

“Sometimes I worry this is taking too heavy a toll on Cole.” Evelyn flexed her shoulders as the salve worked on the sore muscles. “He’s an empath, I think.”

“It’s a difficult balance,” Dorian said. “He wants to help, so you can’t put him on a shelf, but how often is too often? It strengthens my confidence in you, knowing you consider these things.”

“Yet, I use him anyway.”

“He made a decision,” Dorian said. “Don’t patronize him like that. He gets too much of that already by people who see him as a child. Cole has … depths.”

Evelyn arched an eyebrow. “And you’ve been exploring them?”

“I like to know who I’m working with.” Dorian shrugged. “Anyway, you should be feeling better now. You’d probably be asleep already if you weren’t so stubborn.” He screwed the lid back onto the jar. 

“I’m surprised you’re sharing a tent with me tonight,” she said. Dorian had quietly started sharing a tent with Bull. She tried not to feel abandoned. She wanted this to work for both their sakes. But she missed her best friend. 

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.” Dorian pulled her shirt down and helped her ease her arms back into her sleeves. 

“I should have listened to you in the beginning,” Evelyn admitted. 

“Of course you should have.” Dorian crawled back into his bedroll. “Everyone would be better off if they just listened to me.” 

She stifled a laugh and wiggled back into her own bedding, finding a comfortable spot now that every inch of her didn’t ache. She stared up at the folds of fabric hanging above. Crickets sang and something howled in the distance. 

“Dorian?”

“What?” he said sleepily. 

“Ser Cullen has stopped taking lyrium.”

Silence for a minute. “He did?” Dorian sounded much more awake. 

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“I don’t understand either. How will he access his templar abilities? He needs lyrium for that.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t need to access those abilities anymore,” Dorian said. 

“How will he invoke spell purge? How will he … control mages?” The idea that Ser Cullen was now just a man with a sword was … a relief. He couldn’t throw off two decades of ideology as easily as he changed his armor, but the fact that he gave up lyrium meant he was trying. He was sincere; no one went through withdrawal for appearances. He truly meant to put it behind him. Whether or not he was successful was another thing. 

Dorian propped himself up on one elbow. His eyes gleamed in the low light from the fire. “Maybe … maybe he won’t.”


	11. Cullen Talks & Evelyn Threatens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Evelyn have no idea what they're doing, but Alistair is here for it.

Cullen's head spun, and it wasn't lyrium withdrawal for once.

_I can't stop thinking about you._

This was the sign he waited for, and he didn't know how to respond. He never thought it would happen. He hoped, but never believed. She was the Herald of Andraste and he had been the knight-captain. He wanted to ask her if she could ever trust a templar, but didn't dare break the fragile spell.

And he didn't want to remind her -- or himself -- of his past.

His hand rested on the curve of her waist, and she allowed it. He murmured all the reasons they should not -- could not -- do this, his voice deepening with desire. Despite his protests, he needed this the moment she confessed she could not stop thinking about him.

She couldn’t have chosen anyone more unworthy, yet he was unable to turn her away. It was some fantastic stroke of luck, because there was no other explanation for it. He was broken, an addict, and she was the Prophet’s chosen.

It was impossible she felt this way. He should remind her that he was undeserving and polluted by demons, but she looked up with heavily lidded eyes, offering her mouth to him. He was lost; blood rushed in his ears.

Her chest rose and fell with her breath; her pulse throbbed in her throat; she parted and licked her lips; a blush graced her throat; and her gaze lingered on his mouth. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he stifled a groan.

Instead of seizing her and crushing her to his chest, he said all those carefully considered things he imagined would charm her in his secret daydreams. His senses had the crystalline quality he previously only achieved with lyrium, and he was acutely aware of his own reaction to her visible desire. His need left no room for doubt or fear. Their lips were a bare breath apart when the door to his office swung open.

“Commander!”

Bewilderment turned to incredulity, then quickly cycled into anger. “What?!”

The messenger spoke, but he was intent on her obvious embarrassment. She would flee and, once she came to her senses, she would not return. To have been so close …

The man finally perceived the tension and backed away. He would dig latrines until the end of the world -- which might come sooner than they hoped -- if he were one of Cullen’s people.

“If you need to -- ”

Words often failed him, so he took action. He kissed her with all the desperation and passion he felt. With his hands and mouth and body, he tried to tell her how he waited and wanted, the depths of his need and admiration and the hopes and desires he didn't dare examine too closely.

She gasped and stiffened, and he would have released her, but her surprise passed as quickly as it came and she wound her arms around his neck, relaxed into his body and kissed him back. Evelyn gasped his name against his mouth, twining her fingers in his hair, stroking the nape of his neck. He shuddered with relief, even as he knew he should let her go.

It shouldn't be possible. He was the antithesis of a mage's fears, a templar who had forgotten his purpose, forgotten he was meant to be a protector, but she pressed against him as if her need was as urgent as his own.

Cullen broke the kiss reluctantly, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. That was … really nice.” He was an idiot; a fumbling idiot. Maker’s breath, _that was really nice_ ? The Chantry and Templar Order didn’t prepare him for this, it was completely outside his experience. And he botched it.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” she asked.

“No!” He felt like singing from the rooftops. “No. Not at all.”

And he showed her how unfounded her anxieties were.

##

Evelyn didn’t know what to expect when she finally confessed to Cullen. Certainly not to be seized and kissed breathless, but he didn’t need to kiss her to render her breathless.

It was easy to forget her doubts in his company. She was so caught up in the newness and passion. He only had to meet her eyes across a room and she flushed. It was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to bite the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from walking around with a silly smile on her face.

They fit together so well that it was easy to forget they spent most of their lives as a Circle mage and a templar. Easy to forget her doubts when they were together, but when they were apart … in the long, empty hours of the night without him, she remembered his past and her fear.

She needed reassurance. She needed to know he left his past behind. She needed to know _about_ his past. They opened up to one another, cautiously, shyly, in starts and fits. It was revelatory, release, relief … and sometimes painful. They spent their infrequent spare time learning about one another. Sometimes she thought it was something they should have done before falling into one another's arms, but she wasn't sure she could have dropped her guard enough. Now, she had no choice.

"I knew a woman once, an Amell. I never met her like again," he said.

"Which one?" Evelyn asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Which Amell?"

"There are more than one?"

She sighed. "They're also a noble Marcher house lousy with mages. I spent twenty-five years at the Ostwick Circle, but I traveled to other circles frequently. Even to Kirkwall, although not recently."

"I doubt you would have known her." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She was at the Ferelden Circle, but only for a short time."

"I see."

"She became a Grey Warden."

"How did you know her?" she asked, her voice laden with suspicion.

"I attended her Harrowing, actually. She was a lovely woman."

Evelyn grimaced. She imagined the long, quiet hours a templar spent standing vigil during a Harrowing were tense, expecting any moment someone you knew, perhaps watched grow up, would become an abomination and you would be duty-bound to kill them. It wasn't the experience the Harrowing was, but it couldn’t be pleasant.

"When was this?" She asked.

"Ten years ago and more," he said, not looking at her.

That would make them close in age. She imagined having Edwyn stand vigil as her potential executioner during her Harrowing was the sort of cruelty Knight-Captain Roarke would appreciate. And knowing Edwyn stood over her unconscious form, sword in hand and ready to strike, would weigh on her. It sounded like a cruel and subtle punishment for a mage and a templar who violated the fraternization rules.

"Which Amell?" She knew damn well he remembered her name.

He put down his pen and rubbed his face. "Solona Amell."

Her eyes widened. "The Hero of Ferelden? And you didn't tell me this? When were you going to mention you knew the Hero of Ferelden?"

He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Our association was very brief. I had no idea you would be so ... curious about it."

Her eyes narrowed as she remembered a piece of gossip. "This Amell, she has an ... association with a former templar, doesn't she? What was his name?"

"Alistair Theirin." His mouth thinned out. "And he wasn't a templar. He never went through the vigil, never took the vows. He was never one of us. He was -- is -- a Grey Warden."

"Oh, I'd heard he was a handsome, blond ex-templar." She crossed her arms.

The point sailed straight over Cullen's handsome, blond, ex-templar head. "He was an initiate, not a templar," he insisted.

The Chantry sent away for oblivious blonds. It was the only explanation. "If this Amell comes within a mile of Skyhold -- within a mile of you -- I am going to set her hair on fire and push her through a Fade rift," she said calmly. See how the Hero of Ferelden coped with _that_.

Cullen turned red. "You're jealous. It’s ridiculous. Nothing ever happened."

"Why would I be jealous of a brief association?"

"Why else would you set her hair on fire?”

“It’s just that, after your _brief association_ , she went and found herself another ex-templar.” She shrugged. “It’s just curious.”

“I wasn’t an ex-templar at the time,” he said tersely. “And as I told you, Theirin was never a templar.”

“She obtained the next best thing, then, didn’t she? It’s all semantics. If you can’t see the obvious implications … ”

“Nothing happened,” he growled. “It would have been highly inappropriate.” His hands were braced on his desk, and he glowered at her.

The man was glorious in his irritation. If Solona Amell walked into this room right now, she would eat her heart out. Evelyn leaned against his desk, smiling.

He didn’t notice. “I hardly see how I am responsible for someone else’s actions -- ones of which I was unaware at the time.”

She ran her fingers over the stubble on his jaw, then stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, fisting her hands in the folds of his mantle. After a moment of confusion, he pulled her to his chest, running his hands down her back and pressing her against him, heedless of the plate armor between them. He handled her roughly, and she teased his lower lip with her teeth.

When they came up for air, his eyes were so dilated they looked black. “Are you angry with me?”

She didn’t know what she was, other than irrational. “Just remember you are _my_ commander and stay at least a mile away from Amell, and everything will be fine.”

“I think you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be, but I’ve no good basis for comparison.”

She sauntered toward the door. “Nothing is straightforward between us. You haven’t realized that by now?” She paused in the doorway and -- in full view of half the keep -- blew him a kiss. “Stay away from Amell, Commander.” She shut the door on his baffled expression.

She was losing her mind, but she had no intention of turning back. She couldn't.

##

He stood on the battlement, watching the valley. Warden Alistair stopped beside him and braced his hands on the battlements, lifting his face to the sun.

“Warden,” Cullen said.

“Commander,” Alistair returned. The warden had arrived a week ago, and Cullen found his presence uncomfortable, but avoided examining why.

They looked out over the valley in silence for a time.

“Solona told me you were at the Circle at the same time as her,” Alistair said.

Cullen folded his hands over the pommel of his sword. “Yes.” If he wanted to break the silence, Cullen preferred he chose another subject. Any other subject.

“I was there, you know, after Uldred … ” Alistair pitched his voice low.

Cullen wondered what he had said. He didn’t remember much outside of dreams. “Have you heard from Solona lately?” he asked.

Alistair looked to the west. “No.”

Cullen slept badly enough when Evelyn was safe within Skyhold, but when she was in the field, he woke many mornings at his desk, having fallen asleep over his reports the night before. That, even with daily correspondence by virtue of Leliana’s birds.

He could imagine what it was like for Alistair, to have no word for weeks at a time. Possibly even months. “Solona is searching for a cure for the Calling, isn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She always managed the impossible.” Cullen smiled.

“Yes,” Alistair said, his eyes still fixed on the western horizon. “Yes, she does.”

“I can have Inquisition forces look for her,” Cullen offered. “If they see her, they could send a bird -- _she_ could send a bird.”

The corner of Alistair’s mouth turned up. “That would be … a relief. Just to know that people are looking for her, although she’s gone far. Farther than the Inquisition can reach, but ... thank you.”

“You would be surprised how far the Inquisition can reach -- if not with troops, then with influence.”

Alistair turned to survey the interior of the keep. “She would like this.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows. “This?”

“You.” Alistair turned to meet his gaze. “She would like that you’re doing well for yourself.”

Cullen frowned and crossed his arms. Alistair made it sound like Cullen was someone’s pet project. He was many things, most of them not admirable, but he was no one's private cause.

Alistair grinned. “Don’t be mad, she’s like that with everyone. Never met a lost cause or an underdog she didn’t like.”

“She hasn’t changed, then.”

“No.” Alistair’s smile faded. “She’s changed. You don’t go through what she has without changing.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Cullen agreed. "I didn't think before I spoke. I beg your pardon."

The two of them watched the valley in silence. Cullen strained for a hint on the horizon, any sign Evelyn would be in his arms by nightfall. Alistair leaned against the battlement, looking to the west.

“Solona would like it here,” Alistair said. “There’s something here. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it.”

“Evelyn might not -- ”

“Evelyn, is it? Not Her Worship? Inquisitor? Herald?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Maker’s breath!”

Alistair laughed, but it was good-natured. “I understand. You turn around one day and wonder what happened, when it happened and how you managed to have such good fortune.” His smile slipped. “Solona would be happy for you. She told me about that, you know, the two of you had those unrequited crushes at the Circle.”

Cullen gave him a sharp look. If he once longed to hear Solona returned his feelings, he never wanted to hear it like this -- from her lover. Not that knowing would have done him any favors, especially then. If this got back to Evelyn, she might set _his_ hair on fire. “I would apologize to Solona if I could for the Circle.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “You mean that kill-all-the-mages bit?”

Cullen couldn’t understand how Alistair got as far through templar training as he did, taking nothing seriously. “Yes,” he said curtly. “The kill-all-the-mages bit. Among other things.”

“You weren’t in your right mind,” Alistair said.

“No, but even after I … recovered, that colored my actions for a long time, and … I allowed things -- no, not only allowed, but encouraged, _participated_ in things that were unworthy. Mages made Tranquil after flimsy charges were brought against them. Enforcing Meredith’s harsh rules and harsher punishments.” He bowed his head. “That I didn’t participate in the most egregious abuses gives me no comfort, because I should have discovered and stopped them. Things were brought to my attention, and I dismissed them as mages causing trouble.

“Innocent people suffered because I was afraid and unfit for duty, but unwilling to admit it. I carry that with me every day, and it is not nearly penance enough. I wanted to _serve_ , to help people, to protect the innocent, but it all went so very wrong. I thought all I needed was faith in the Maker’s will.” He shook his head. “If I could speak to Solona again, I would ask her forgiveness for many things.”

“Maybe you’ll have a chance to tell her yourself,” Alistair said.

Cullen coughed. “Actually … I’m to stay at least a mile away from her at all times. Inquisitor’s orders.”

Alistair frowned. “Surely she can’t think … ”

“I won’t test it. She threatened to set Solona’s hair on fire and push her into a Fade rift. Although she may have been joking. I think.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, and his hand drifted toward his sword hilt. “Can she do that?”

“She can open and close rifts in the Fade,” Cullen said. “But I think she was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about Solona,” Alistair said. “After all, she killed an archdemon.”

“And Evelyn has faced down one of the original darkspawn.”

“But not killed him,” Alistair pointed out.

“We’re not sure he can be killed -- the Champion of Kirkwall tried and failed.”

“Only a champion of a city.” Alistair shrugged. “What is that in comparison to the hero of an entire country?”

“What’s a country in comparison to the entire world and all the faithful?”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Are we arguing over which of our lights of love is the more frightening?”

Cullen was surprised into a laugh. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree?”

“I’m just saying the country you’re dismissing is our homeland, Commander.”

“A good point, Warden.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t get them together.”

“I would probably be for the best,” Cullen said.

##

Evelyn sat on the edge of Cullen’s desk. It was early afternoon, and he attacked his paperwork with the same grim focus as he drilled the troops that morning.

“Bull and Varric both say you need a war, because if you don’t stop drilling in the bailey, Josephine is going to kill you,” she said.

Cullen made a disinterested noise and shuffled some papers.

“I was speaking to Warden Alistair today.”

Cullen glanced up, then made some notes at the bottom of the report he was reading.

“The stories were right. He’s very handsome. And oddly charming.”

Cullen put aside the page and picked up another.

“He has a certain joie de vivre.”

Cullen dashed something off on the page, then moved several pages around so he could see them all at once. He pointedly didn’t look at her.

“He told me wardens receive fresh peaches, bunnies and their choice of the village girls daily.”

“It’s nonsense,” Cullen growled.

“Of course it is, but it’s charming nonsense.”

He glowered at her. “You are deliberately irritating me.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Is this revenge for something I didn’t do ten years ago?”

She leaned back until she was reclined across his piles of reports, and his frown deepened into thunderous territory. “No. I just miss arguing with you,” she said.

He sat back. “You’re picking fights with me? You’re being ridiculous.”

She stretched, arching her back, and her tunic slid upwards, baring her stomach. He swallowed. “This,” she said, patting the desk, “is uncomfortable. I think there’s a quill under my hip.”

He took a deep breath. “You’re determined that I get nothing done today, aren’t you?”

“Arguing with you is good for my humors, the surgeon said so. Besides, you’ve got a headache.”

“The surgeon said no such thing.” He sighed. “And how did you know I had a headache?”

“You keep pinching the bridge of your nose and rubbing your temples. And she did say my humors needed balancing.” She sat up. “Let me see what I can do for your headache. I promise not to go on endlessly about the handsome Warden Alistair. Although he does have the prettiest brown eyes. Odd, that. It’s almost as if Amell has a type.”

He stood, grabbed her knees and pulled her to the edge of the desk. He bent and kissed her, sinking his hands into her hair. She leaned into him, but he pulled away first.

“I don’t care what Amell’s type is,” he whispered in her ear. “But you had a suggestion about my headache … ?”

“Warden who?” she breathed.

He smiled. “You’re impossible.”

##

Evelyn wore blue. It suited the persona she projected, but Cullen knew fire lurked under her icy exterior. The shimmering cloth fell like a waterfall from throat and hips, and subtly changed shades as she moved. He didn't realize so much material could be so immodest. Her dark hair was braided and wound around the crown of her head in a coronet.

Evelyn walked arm-in-arm with Warden Alistair. She smiled up at him and he down at her. They were a matched pair: She in her icy blue finery and he in his blue-and-silver warden's armor.

Cullen flushed with some dull, strange anger, although neither did anything to warrant it. He only knew his hands were balled into fists and he was beset by the urge to punch Alistair in the mouth. _That_ would stop his smiling. Cullen frowned and forced his fingers to uncurl.

She laughed, tilting her head back and baring the graceful arch of her throat.

He stepped into their line of sight. Evelyn's face lit when she saw him, and Cullen relaxed. Her eyes, her smile, her joy: It all was for _him_.

She let go of Alistair's arm and went to Cullen without looking back.

"Lady Inquisitor." Cullen offered his arm.

She curtsied. "Commander." She took his arm.

Cullen glanced up in time to catch Alistair's grin.

"Warden," Cullen said.

"Commander." Alistair's eyes danced with amusement.

_She would like that you’re doing well for yourself._

Cullen raised an eyebrow, but Alistair shook his head. "Lady Inquisitor, I could leave you in no better hands," Alistair said. "If you would excuse me?"

"Thank you, Warden Alistair," she said.

Alistair bowed, then set off with a jaunty stride, whistling.

Cullen turned his attention to Evelyn. "He knows about us," he said.

"Alistair?"

He grimaced. "Yes. I'm afraid I slipped and called you by your given name."

"Good." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "He can go and tell Amell you are taken."

 _Amell_ was taken. And the thought caused him no pain.

She looked up at him, her lashes fanning across her cheeks.

"You're beautiful," he said.

She smiled. "The delegation from Rivain today, remember?" With a gesture, she included the dress and hair.

"You're beautiful in anything," he said.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"You say the sweetest things, Commander." She skated her fingertips along his jawline. "Escort me to the hall?"

"I will follow you anywhere."


	12. Cullen Remembers & Evelyn Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson arrives at Skyhold in chains, and Cullen can't understand the changes in his old roommate. Evelyn and Cullen drop in on the Wardens, who aren't happy to see them -- maybe because Ser Barris is asking for a cup of sugar?

Cullen stood at parade rest on the ramparts, watching a heavy infantry platoon wending its way through the valley. A wagon creaked along in the group's center, and a cage was in the wagon. A man was in the cage, manacles around his ankles chaining him to the cage's floor, and a yoke around his neck also pinned his hands in place. A woman sat beside the driver, a crossbow steadily aimed at the prisoner's heart. They took no chances.

Evelyn and her party rode behind the platoon, and he could tell she had been injured by how stiffly she sat in the saddle. Cullen clenched his fists behind his back. He had no doubt who was responsible: the man in the cage.

Raleigh Samson, commander of the red templars, one-time member of the mage underground, disgraced former templar of the Kirkwall Circle and Cullen's long-ago roommate.

Samson looked up, perhaps wondering what awaited him in the imposing fortress. Surely, Cullen only _imagined_ Samson looked up at him.

_A general takes care of his troops …_

Cullen slept in his gambeson and trousers after his transfer from Greenfell. He would have slept in his chain mail, but that was more uncomfortable than even his paranoia.

He had nightmares that left him breathless, shaking and scrambling for the sword beneath his cot. Cullen's cries of distress woke Samson the first night. The older man, clad only in his smallclothes, leapt from his bed, drawing his sword from the scabbard leaning against his cot.

"What is it?" Samson said. He was steady and completely awake in the time it took to get to his feet and draw.

Cullen stood up, sword in hand. He panted and sweated. He lit a candle and looked around, checking the corners twice. His hands shook and made the shadows dance strangely ... almost as if something moved along the bare walls, staying just out of sight.

Samson bore this without comment or expression.

"There's nothing there," Cullen said. He sounded bewildered, even to himself.

Samson sheathed his sword, and Cullen was glad he couldn't see the other man’s expression. His first roommate already had complained of his screaming in the night, and Cullen was reassigned to new quarters.

"You came from the Ferelden Circle?" Samson's tone was even.

"Yes. By way of Greenfell." The words were bitter in Cullen’s mouth.

Samson said nothing for a long moment. "Goodnight." He settled on his cot, rolled over and began snoring.

Cullen sat on the edge of his cot, naked steel across his knees. If Knight-Commander Meredith found him unfit for service, she would send him back to Greenfell. The idea of being entombed alive with those vague shadows who were once templars horrified him.

Across the room, Samson snored as if he had never awakened.

_A proof of humanity …_

Samson smoothed Cullen’s way after that: introducing him to his new brothers- and sisters-in-arms, making room for him at the board during meals, helping him find his way around the Gallows and never asking him about his screams in the night. Samson would wake, wait until Cullen finished searching their spartan cell, then go back to sleep without comment.

Cullen could no longer contain his curiosity. “Why?” he asked. “Why are you helping me?”

Samson had only shrugged. “Because someone had to do it.” He gave Cullen a half-smile. “I guess I’m a push-over.”

Cullen shook his head. “No.” He had seen Samson standing between two men, arguing over one of The Blooming Rose’s employees. The two brawlers had drawn swords and Samson never touched his, only spoke with that same even tone he used on Cullen when he woke up screaming, and he talked them down. And it wasn’t the first time; Samson was clever with his words. “No,” Cullen repeated. “Not a push-over. Far from it.”

_The Chantry never knew what it had …_

Samson couldn’t escape lyrium addiction or Meredith’s wrath, for all his cleverness. Cullen, who woke up screaming in terror in the middle of the night, was made knight-captain, and Samson, who had a way with words and steady hand, was drummed out and left to die a slow death of withdrawal in the gutter.

In retrospect, it made perfect sense: Meredith didn’t want clever men, she wanted frightened ones. But Samson had helped Cullen, and Cullen couldn’t let him be thrown away without a thought. Remembering Meredith’s rage at being questioned made Cullen frown even now.

It had been the first time Cullen questioned Meredith.

Samson’s greatest flaw was his pride, so Cullen was careful never to be obvious when he turned a blind eye to Samson’s activities -- and as Meredith’s madness grew, Cullen was grateful for every “missing” mage. Cullen could do little, and he was hobbled by Samson’s pride and his growing disdain and hate for the Order that turned him out.

Cullen brought him back into the fold after Meredith’s death, but Samson had changed. It wasn’t enough. Perhaps Cullen should have brought Samson when he followed Cassandra, but he hadn’t, and Samson disappeared into Lowtown again, those grimy back alleys as familiar to Samson as the Gallows.

Cullen wondered if he could have prevented Samson’s last journey.  

##

Cullen oversaw Samson’s transfer to Skyhold’s jail, and Evelyn knew by the set of his mouth he was furious. She wanted to go to him immediately, but they both had obligations, no matter their feelings or preferences.  

It was late before she managed to escape her endless duties. Samson had cracked her ribs, and she was sure he would try some trickery on the way to Skyhold and slept badly. She was exhausted and dying for a long, hot bath, but she needed to speak to Cullen in private, if only for a few moments, to see if she could ease the distress telegraphed in his crossed arms and clenched jaw.

She knocked once, then entered his office, balancing a tea tray.  

He looked up, frowning, but his eyes lit when he saw her. It was almost enough to distract from the deep shadows under his eyes and his pallor. “I was hoping you’d come.” He smiled.

“If you wanted me, you should have sent for me.” She watched him with hungry eyes. “I would have come.”

He had removed his mantle and armor and undone his gambeson at the throat. His hair was tousled as if he had been running his hands through it.

“You had things that needed done.” He stacked papers, then placed a dagger atop them to weigh them down. “As did I.” He groaned, stretching. His shoulders flexed under his padded leather jacket, and she was riveted.

Evelyn sat the tray on the edge of his desk, then fixed him a cup of tea with three sugars. Cullen had a sweet tooth, and it was endearing. Everything about him was endearing now. She passed him the cup, and he inhaled the rising steam, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

She slid behind his chair. “Let me see about that headache?”

“You should see a healer about _your_ injury.”

“If I go as soon as I leave you, then will you let me help you?”  

He sighed in resignation. “You won’t leave until you have your way, so I submit. Tell me about Emprise Du Lion and capturing Samson?”

“Always working.” She stroked his temples, and he sighed, relaxing.

“I spent so long working as an avoidance technique that it’s difficult to stop,” he said. “But you were telling me about Samson?”

“Hmm.” She went to work on his shoulders. “We cleared out a nest of red Templars in Emprise Du Lion -- Samson and his hand-picked men. They were force-feeding red lyrium to the local townspeople.”

She shuddered and, as she spoke, she struggled to articulate how ghastly it had been, frustrated she couldn’t convey it as clearly as she remembered it. She would never forget the red templars’ handiwork: corpses shrouded by red crystals and snow. The red lyrium, shimmering with heat, had its own dreadful beauty.

But those weren’t the only horrors in Emprise Du Lion.

“I killed Edwyn in Emprise Du Lion,” she said. “He didn't know me. I'm not sure if was because he went red or I was nothing to him. I don't want to know.”

His face went slack and blank. It told her he didn't want her to know what he was thinking as clearly as he spoke it aloud. He rolled his shoulders, moving under her hands. She renewed her efforts, feeling the muscles that were relaxing tense up again.

“If you hesitate, if you look for the person you knew in the corruption -- an abomination -- you are dead,” she said. “Edwyn tried his damnedest to kill me.” She was quiet for a moment, concentrating the feel of his shoulders under her hands. “If the time comes, you must not hesitate. Especially … especially because of the mark. If an abomination could open a way into the Fade ...  “ She once was close to becoming what she feared most, and she prayed he never would know how close she came.

“I know.” His voice was as bleak as the bitter winds that found their way through the cracks in the wall and the gaping hole in the ceiling.

“How strange it is, that a mage must kill corrupted templars.” She barely recognized Edwyn. The red lyrium twisted his features. But that golden hair … she touched Cullen’s hair and tried not to think about what red lyrium would do to him.

A terse nod was Cullen’s only reply.

“Are you capable of doing what needs to be done, if necessary?”

He shrugged free of her hands. “Do not ask this of me.” His voice was rough with unspoken emotion.

“I need to know …”

“And if I become corrupt, if I fall to red lyrium, would you do the same for me? If a good man like Samson can be seduced by it, how much more susceptible is someone with all my flaws?”

She recoiled. “Cullen …” Her stomach was in knots and her breath hitched.

He stood, his movements careful, but he was angry. “Why do you ask me such things? Do you not understand how even the _idea_ of harming you repulses me?”

Evelyn bit her lip. “The mark,” she whispered. “You _know_ the danger. And I trust you.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her so tightly against his chest she felt the thud of his heart against her cheek. “Maker, what you ask of me! Ask for anything else and I will move the heavens for you, but not that. Please, not that.”

She pressed herself against him, needing his strength, and prayed it wouldn’t be necessary.

She prayed she would find the strength to deny her darker urges … this time.

##

Cullen drove the pommel of his sword between a Warden mage's eyes, even as the woman hit him with a burst of electricity. His magical defenses were weakened after so long without lyrium, and his muscles convulsed under the onslaught. It was all he could do to stay standing.

A sword erupted from the mage's chest in a gout of blood. Ser Barris lowered his sword, and the dead woman slid off, collapsing bonelessly.

Cullen nodded his thanks. "How are our people doing?"

"The majority of the wardens have surrendered," Barris said. "There are a few mages left. They barricaded themselves in one of the halls. My templars are dealing with them." He wiped the dead mage’s blood from his sword.

“And the Inquisitor?” Cullen held his breath.

“She was headed toward the heart of the keep with Warden Alistair, Hawke and a few others.”

“To confront Clarel.” Cullen glanced around. Not far away, an Inquisition soldier finished off a despair demon. Bodies littered the battlement -- mostly demons and wardens, but there were still a few wearing the all-seeing eye. Clarel’s madness resulted in wasted lives of good soldiers, his soldiers. He flexed his hands. The assault was necessary, but it shouldn’t have been. All because the Grey Wardens believed, like so many others, they could dabble in blood magic, because their hearts were pure and their cause just. It ended as it always did with blood magic: needless death.

“Likely, yes.”

“Not just likely.” Cullen started toward the stairs, his naked sword in his hand. He had the feeling he would need it. As he mounted the steps, great ragged black wings blotted out the sky.

The dragon landed with a thud that rolled through the ancient fortress.

Warden-Commander Clarel dangled from its maw, flopping like a ragdoll. Evelyn, accompanied by Alistair, Cassandra, Cole and Sera, disappeared in the beast’s shadow.

Cullen took the steps two at a time, only to reach the top and find his way blocked by demons.

The dragon advanced, moving sinuously across the upper battlements, eyes locked on the Inquisitor, like a cat stalking its prey.

Cullen hacked and slashed, thrusting his shield into a demon's chest, knocking it off balance long enough to deliver the coup de grace. Barris was on his left, and the two of them worked their way up the stairs. Given that Barris was left-handed and the two shared the same templar training, they worked well together, but Cullen’s reined-in panic prevented him from taking any pleasure in it.

Clarel clawed her way across the battlement, leaving a trail of gore. The dragon showed no further interest in her. Lightning crackled around her hands as she drug herself over stone.

Cullen cursed under his breath. He would never reach Evelyn in time. He drove his sword between the ribs of another mage, then pistoned his foot into the dying man’s chest to free his blade.

Evelyn backed away, but there was nowhere for her to go -- the battlement ended in a drop-off into the Abyssal Rift a few score feet behind her, and the dragon was between her and the stairs. Perhaps they could make a run for it, beneath the dragon’s belly …

Barris caught his eye, and the two men shared a moment of silent communication, then rushed the stairs that would bring them to the battlements where the dragon loomed above Evelyn -- after many twists and turns.

Cullen prayed with every step. He prayed he would reach her, she would live and he wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her, not now all the old wounds and scars were healing and fading, not when he stopped dreading the future, not when he finally had hope.

Lightning clawed the sky, and he and Barris were dashed to the floor as the stones beneath their feet shook with a massive explosion. He rolled back to his feet, gave Barris a hand and turned just in time to see the battlements collapsing beneath her.

“No.” He wanted to scream it, but his shock was so great it was little more than an exhalation between numbed lips.

There was a single, brief flare of emerald green light. It was extinguished as quickly as it appeared. Her mark; he knew it instinctively.

_No ..._

Barris ran, and Cullen stumbled after, dizzy, stomach turning inside out in dread, cries of dismay ringing in his ears. They came from all corners of the fortress, as the Inquisition soldiers realized the Inquisitor was gone.

_Evelyn …_

They reached the heaps of stone that was all that was left of the battlement. Cullen crashed to a halt, nearly careening into Barris. His heart beat painfully in his ears. Every single block of stone was longer and higher than he was tall, and he couldn't begin to imagine how much each one weighed.

If the fall didn’t kill her, surely she was crushed.

His soldiers gathered, looking at him, waiting for his direction. He wanted to fall to his knees and howl his grief to the heavens.

There was work to do.

“Get the engineers in here,” he snapped. “I want some block-and-tackle pulleys, some mules, some wheelbarrows. Clear this out.” He paused; he didn’t want to give them false hope, but they needed it. _He_ needed it. “She might still be alive. After all, she survived Haven.”

He lost the next few moments as there was a rush of people, including messengers from Leliana, already sending birds winging back to Skyhold. He told them Cassandra fell, too. He wondered how Leliana would take her loss, after all the years they worked side-by-side for the Divine, so quickly after Justinia.

He paced as he waited for the block-and-tackle to arrive.

Barris pulled him aside. “There is still a rift in the heart of the castle,” Barris said.

“Go and investigate, then.”

Barris shook his head. “You must go. I know what you’re thinking -- she is among the stones somewhere, and if you only stay here and oversee this, then she will be discovered alive. Commander, she is _dead_ ... and I would spare you finding her body _._ ”

Cullen spun away from his hold. It was that, or strike him. He clenched his fists.

Barris grabbed his tabard and pulled him around again. “Listen to me!”

Cullen gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath. “You go too far, Barris.”

“Do you think I don’t grieve? She saved us at Therinfall. The Order exists because of her. We _live_ because of her. You are not the only one who mourns.” Barris lowered his voice. “I know you love her, Cullen.”

Cullen turned away.

“If you love her, do not turn your back on her cause -- she gave her life for it. There is a Fade rift to be dealt with.”

“And what do you expect me to do? I cannot close a Fade rift.”

“I expect you to lead, especially with the eyes of your soldiers on you.”

Cullen closed his eyes. He couldn’t. He had lost everything. “It is hopeless,” he said, pitching his voice low. Without Evelyn, they couldn’t close the rifts.

“It is, but they don’t know that.”

“Fine,” he snarled.

He turned on his heel and stalked away, calling for volunteers. Cullen seethed, but he knew Barris was right. The Inquisition was at a turning point and confidence was fragile.

But his heart ached.

Adamant was a Maker-damned maze of stairs and battlements, and he cursed every doubleback and twist as he and his group of volunteers made their way to the center of the fortress. The group was a large one, and he would be awash in pride at their bravery and commitment despite the loss of their Inquisitor in any other circumstance. They trusted him, and he had to honor that trust, no matter the pain.

They entered the central courtyard to the sound of cheers.

“The Inquisitor!”

Cullen lowered his sword.

They all took up the cry, and he saw her, emerald light crackling around her as the rift disappeared with a clapping noise of air collapsing back into empty space. Evelyn was drawn and her expression haunted, and Sera steadied her as she staggered. Sera was so pale, Cullen could count her freckles from across the courtyard.

The men and women with him surged forward, whooping, thrusting their swords into the air and beating them against their shields in a joyful cacophony. Their savior had survived again, and her legend could only grow.

He fell to a knee, bowed his head and closed his eyes in prayer, collecting himself so his hands would not shake when he went to her. He could not -- would not -- lose her. He would go to any length to keep her safe.  

Maker willing, she would never know how far he already had gone.

##

_Cullen jumped at his own shadow then …_

Evelyn stood outside Samson’s cell for the second time in as many days, arms crossed protectively. The former general and templar was behind bars, but he would hurt her if he could, even if only with words.

He mimicked her pose on the other side of the bars, his expression full of wry contempt.

“I won’t need any assistance,” Evelyn told the jailer, who nodded and retreated to the farthest side of the dungeon to give them the illusion of privacy.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Inquisitor,” Samson said. His face was hollow and his dark hair lank and thinning. The shadows under his eyes gave him a bruised look, and his skin was sallow. Defeat -- and red lyrium -- wasn’t kind.

“There are bars between us,” she said. “There is precious little you can do.”

“I was a templar and you are a mage. The red stuff is powerful.” He smiled and it mocked them both. “Care to try me?”

_He played fair with the mages, he wasn’t rough with them, not like Meredith._

“You were kind to mages once. Cullen said you were a good man. You helped Maddox, protected him before you knew you would need him. What happened?”

He laughed. “My kindness got me thrown out of the Order. Couldn’t go around treating mages like people -- you might get ideas above your station.”

“But even after you were ejected from the Order, you helped them. Even though you were suffering from lyrium addiction, you smuggled mages out of Kirkwall.”

Samson fell back a step, but recovered with a sneer. “Who told you that?”    

She took a step closer to the bars, but not within arms’ reach. She humbled him in Emprise Du Lion, but she didn’t break him. “Cullen knew.”

Confusion was quickly replaced with sullenness. “If he knew, why didn’t he stop us?” he asked.

“For the same reason you were smuggling them out in the first place. You and Hawke.”

“I heard you left her behind in the Fade,” Samson said. “She was one of the only people to help me in Kirkwall, back when she was Champion. People like you, you’re so focused on the high stakes, you don’t notice the nobodies you step over on the way. Hawke … she saw _everyone_. I wouldn’t have done any different, though.” He shrugged. “If it’s between you or them … I wouldn’t have pretended to do it for some high ideal, though. That’s the difference between you and me: I know I’m a user. Always have been.”

“Hawke volunteered to stay behind,” she said. Samson had no idea how difficult the choice was -- a voice at the back of her mind asked if Evelyn left Hawke because she had been Cullen’s lover -- and Evelyn wouldn’t enlighten him. He would only use it to hurt her. “Hawke felt it was her duty, her responsibility.”

“Duty is bullshit. Something the higher-ups use to jerk you around.” He crossed his arms, but the gesture was no longer mocking. Instead, it was tired. “Did you tell her it was her duty?”

“No, she decided that for herself.”

He grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past her. She was a good one, a fool, but all heroes are.”

“How could you do it?” she asked. “How does someone go from saving powerless people to poisoning his own soldiers?”

He sighed, and it was dry and thin, papery. “Red or blue, it was stealing their minds and killing them. You never stop craving lyrium. _Never_.”

"The red lyrium turned them into monsters.”

“The blue turned them into madmen who couldn’t remember their own names. Who is to say which is better in the end?”

“You lied to them.”

“And they believed it,” he agreed. “Even when they knew better, even when they suspected something was wrong, they went along because the Order taught them to do what they were told and not to ask questions. All that garbage about giving us an education -- the Chantry taught us what they wanted us to know and told us what to think about it.

“We were deceived and taken advantage of long before Corypheus. We all go mad in the end, so what does it matter? At least they chose.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said.

“Why? Because you don’t want it to be true? Because you’ve fallen in love with a templar? Yes, even down here, the servants talk, and there’s nothing wrong with my ears. My mind, maybe, but not my ears.

“Cullen always did have women falling all over themselves, only he never knew what to do with them, not after Ferelden Circle. And he was given plenty of advice, even if he didn’t ask.

“He’s a templar -- always has been, always will be. There’s no moving on from it. And you’re a mage.”

She didn’t flinch, although his words hit home. She had known he would hurt her if he could. “Did you know he applied for clemency for you? He asked Meredith to reinstate you.”

The look of pure fury that crossed his face frightened her, but he turned away, facing the back of his cell.

And no matter what she said, he would not speak.

##

Samson looked up at Cullen. “I’ve been expecting you. Thought you’d be here sooner, actually.”

Cullen regarded him steadily.

“So what do I call you now? Knight-captain? Knight-commander?”

“I am no longer with the Order,” Cullen said.

Samson laughed. “Maybe not, but the Order has shaped you. You can leave it, but you can’t escape it. None of us can.”

“I will.”

“No, you won’t.” Samson’s shoulders slumped. “None of us will.”

“I’m not one of you.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll even believe it. But you didn’t come down in this dank hole to remember the old days. What do you want, knight-captain?”

Cullen ignored the jibe. It was all Samson had now. “I want to know why you did it.” He could not connect the man who had been his roommate or even the Samson who lurked in Lowtown with this creature. Not with that strange red sheen in his eyes.

“Your little mage was in here, asking that same thing.”

Cullen didn’t say anything.

“If you don’t want the servants gossiping, you shouldn’t grope her on the battlements in full view of half the keep,” Samson said. “They’re mad for each new installment, like you’re a fucking new chapter in the bloody Randy Dowager. I could almost think you meant to undermine her authority, if I hadn’t known you before and knew what it cost you to touch a woman. If I hadn’t heard the things you screamed in your sleep. If I hadn’t noticed the nights you weren’t there to scream; Meredith’s special toy.”

“Are you finished?” Cullen asked.

“I’ll be finished when you’re bleeding.” Samson bared his teeth.

It was Cullen’s turn to laugh, and it was bitter and sharp. “I’ve endured far more than sharp words. It will take much more than that if you want to see the color of my blood.”

“Suffered all that on behalf of the Chantry, and no one gave a damn, just sent you away so they didn’t have to be reminded of what happened to you. Sent you to Meredith; out of the pan and into the fire. Yet, here you are, working to preserve the Chantry’s power.”

“Working to preserve peace and order.”

Samson clutched the cell bars, his knuckles white. “Whose peace and order? The Chantry’s? Did you forget what they did to us? To the mages?”

“Yes, I remember who is responsible for setting the templars and the mages at each other’s throats. I also remember who deepened the conflict and took advantage of disillusioned templars and set them to killing innocents.”

“It was no more than the Chantry always has done,” Samson said.

“So you corrupt templars and make them monstrous, then justify it by saying they always have been corrupted? You do as the Chantry has done, then rage against that same Chantry? The lyrium has taken your mind.”

“I gave them control. I gave them a choice. It was more than the Chantry gave them.”

“You _lied_ to them. What real control or choice did they have, when you didn’t tell them the truth?”

“What truth? That they’re all destined to burn out and lose their minds? At least I gave them hope.”

“False hope. You just wanted the lyrium,” Cullen said.

“I wanted to be a _templar_ again,” Samson snarled.

Cullen stared for a moment. “You destroyed templars.” Samson wanted a purpose and to belong; everyone did. If Samson was recruited into the Inquisition, maybe he wouldn’t have entered Corypheus’ service. But if not Samson, then someone else with a connection to the Order.

“What templars?” Samson asked. “Your little mage has leashed them. They don’t exist outside the Inquisition.”

“She belongs to herself,” Cullen said.

“She destroyed our Order.”

Cullen shook his head. “Not _our_ Order. You were ejected and I left. And your master did what he could to bring the Order to its knees -- with the help of Envy and the Lord Seeker. You betrayed the Order. You betrayed your command. You betrayed yourself.” He felt a wave of disgust and wondered if it covered some darker, more bitter emotion. Maybe even self-reproach.

“I guess you have all the answers,” Samson said. The red sheen in his eyes hid much. “Nothing to see here.”

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Nothing.”

He wished it was otherwise.


	13. Cullen's Angry & Evelyn's Angsty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets angry over Blackwell's defection and release, and Evelyn questions her decision to leave Hawke in the Fade. All that tension needs to be released somehow.

She rolled the small vial between her fingers, the blue liquid within sloshing against the glass. Evelyn held it up, letting the glowing fluid catch the light streaming through the Orlesian doors. The light made it appear as if it were aflame. If she drank it, it would burn down her throat as if it were on fire, as well. Everything would sharpen, magnify and pulling on the Fade would become easier, faster.

Evelyn sat the vial on her desk. She had many. She was the Inquisitor and a mage, and there was no reason she shouldn’t have a ready supply of lyrium, especially when she was fighting demons.

Except … you could become addicted to lyrium. Mages didn’t use it as often as templars, so weren’t as susceptible. Templars used every day, sometimes multiple times a day, and their draughts were stronger, more refined. Somehow, it helped them stifle magic, while, at the same time, enhancing mages’ abilities.

The constant use came at a price; templars all lost their minds in the end. Most of them went quietly, forgetting themselves and becoming old before their time. A rare few went completely, violently mad. Evelyn shuddered, closed her eyes and controlled her breathing. She wouldn’t dwell on the past. Knight-Captain Roarke could not harm her any longer. She saw to that -- but what she allowed others to suffer in her stead haunted her.

Lyrium wasn’t her preferred field of study, but she now wished she spent more time researching it. And researching how it affected templars.

As Inquisitor, she had access to an unlimited supply of the purest, highest-quality lyrium Orzammar could provide. She opened her desk drawer and dropped the vial inside, then closed and locked it. She was not worried about addiction.

Not her addiction, anyway.

When she returned from the field, she put off seeing Cullen as long as she could bear, which usually wasn’t very long. No matter what she told herself as she walked from the rotunda to the guard tower, she knew she would end up in his arms. Her heart beat faster just thinking about it. Perhaps she had her own addiction.

Today, he held her, but broke off their kiss sooner than she liked. He kissed the top of her head and murmured he had work that needed his attention. She didn’t understand at first, and even the gentle rebuff was a knife in her heart -- further proof she was in far, far above her head.

She stood alone on the battlements and touched her numb mouth -- numb from lyrium. The taste of it was on her lips. They encountered another group of demons that morning, almost within Skyhold’s shadow. Exhausted from fighting their way through the Emerald Graves, they were nearly overwhelmed. She was not sorry she took it, but she was sorry she didn’t think about how it would affect him.

She sat back, folding her fingers around the desk drawer key. She had some research to do.

##

Cullen climbed the stairs. It was late, but Evelyn would want to hear this, no matter the hour. Her rest was troubled since Adamant, so perhaps it would give her some peace. It gave him none.

He stopped at the top of the stairs to steal a moment to admire her. There was no one else to remark on his distraction, and she was absorbed in taking notes. A stack of books sat at her elbow, overflowing to the floor around her desk. She muttered and frowned to herself, her fingers were ink-stained and her hair was hastily tied up. There was an ink smudge on her cheek where she had rested it against her fist.

He cleared his throat so not to startle her and she glanced up and smiled tiredly.

"Is this Inquisition business or ... ?" She lowered her eyes, flushing.

His cheeks heated as well, but he secretly delighted in her reaction -- one she would have hidden from him only weeks ago. But she wouldn't have had to ask if he came to her with business or a personal matter then, either. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Inquisition business. Blackwall -- Thom Rainier has just arrived at Skyhold.”

She jumped to her feet and began pacing. “He is unharmed?”

Cullen shrugged. A few bruises would be less than Rainier deserved. “He was imprisoned for several weeks. He’s been in better condition.”

“I must go to see myself,” she said. “At once. Where is he?”

“In the dungeon.”

She stopped, her eyes widening with surprise. “Cullen! Why?”

“He’s a prisoner.”

“Do you think Josephine went to all that trouble to bring him here so we could throw him into yet another dungeon?”

“I think it’s better than he deserves.” Cullen crossed his arms, trying to keep his anger under control. “Much better.”

“He is one of my people, Cullen. I will not see him executed if I can prevent it.” She began to pace again.

Her devotion to the Inquisition's people was one of the reasons he fell for her, but this blind loyalty angered him. “He betrayed the men under his command. Lied to them.” He couldn’t abide lies since he learned the depth of Meredith’s deceptions.

She sighed and her shoulders sagged. “Yes.” She hugged herself. “I have not forgotten what he did, nor have I forgotten the children who died.”

“The children he _murdered_.”

Evelyn turned away. “Yes, the murdered children.” Her voice was strangled. “I can not forget.”

“And he allowed his men to take responsibility for his actions.” His voice was low and rough with anger. He didn’t want to be angry with her, but the idea she might believe this was acceptable, in her position … Cullen knew her better than that. He hoped.

“That was wrong … but, you, of all people, should appreciate second chances.”

He stiffened. “I am  aware of my own failings, Inquisitor.”

She turned to him, and her eyes welled with tears. “And I am aware of my own, and Blackwall’s.” Evelyn took a deep breath. “And yours. Yet, here you are, given the opportunity to serve and help others -- given a second chance.”

“I have never allowed others to take responsibility for my wrongdoing.” He strode to the opposite end of the room. He didn’t need to be reminded of his past, because he didn’t allow himself to forget. That she would compare him and Rainier … Cullen compared them as well, and he didn’t measure up well. Rainier murdered children, lied to his soldiers and allowed them to take the fall, but Cullen’s decade of abuses both small and large weighed heavier.

Rainier had not rendered anyone Tranquil.

“No, you have accepted responsibility,” she said. While he was caught up in his self-loathing, she had crossed the room. “Cullen, I know you have taken responsibility for what you have done. And so has Blackwell. He could have allowed that man to be executed, but he didn’t. He could have lived the rest of his life as Blackwall, but in the end, he didn’t. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“Is it enough to wipe the ledger clean of sins?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Are you asking on his behalf … or yours?”

He held her to his chest, unable to deny himself the comfort she offered. “I don’t know. I just know arranging his release could be damaging to the Inquisition.”

“I couldn’t let him die. He is one of ours. I can’t turn my back on a man who has fought beside me, saved my life and risked his own. It would be a poor repayment for his loyalty. And … are we not allowed second chances? We all make mistakes. All of us.” She sounded so mournful.

“Some things don’t deserve second chances … but I am not in a position to make that decision,” he said.

“Are any of us?”

He held her tightly. “I don’t know.”

“If you felt so strongly about it, I wish you would have come to me before this.”  

“Would it have changed your mind?” he asked.

“I would have listened to you, Cullen, and took it into account at the very least.”

He sighed. “I’m not used to that.”

“Being listened to?”

“Yes. Meredith didn't allow disagreement.”

“I’m not Meredith.”

He smiled. “I had noticed that, actually.”

Evelyn stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin. “Did you?”

“Yes.” It was much better to inspire smiles than tears. He could avoid Rainier. It was a large keep.

“Such a sharp eye you have, Commander.”

“I do my best, Inquisitor.” He captured her mouth with his own, his tension easing as she relaxed against him. When they came up for air, his mood was much improved. “Would you like for me to accompany you to see Rainier?”

“Yes, please.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

“Your wish is my command.” Never had the words rang more true.

##

“There just isn’t enough information available,” Evelyn said. She shared the love seat in Solas’ rotunda with a pile of books she just returned to him.

“Very few have made the effort to research the Fade,” Solas said. “I suspect the Chantry’s attitude toward spirits and mages has much to do with it.”

She reclined against the seatback and closed her eyes. “You’re probably right. It wasn’t a field of study much encouraged.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you think she could still be alive?”

“There is … a possibility, Inquisitor.” Solas examined a blank wall, likely contemplating his next mural. Being the object of artwork made her uncomfortable. Solas’ paintings were larger than life, and she felt very small.

“But you don’t think it’s a good probability,” she said.

“It is unlikely she survived a battle with the Nightmare,” Solas said. “But that shouldn’t stop us from trying to discover a way back into the Fade to rescue her. No matter how small a chance, there still is a chance.”

Evelyn didn’t doubt Solas would be the first to volunteer to participate in a Fade experiment. She had plenty on her conscience without losing him to another of her poor decisions. If only Hawke hadn't volunteered or the choice hadn't been Evelyn's to make. She couldn’t help re-examining her motives after the fact.  

“As soon as Corypheus is defeated, we must direct our energies toward recovering Hawke from the Fade,” she said. Or Hawke’s body.

“I agree, Inquisitor,” Solas said. “Until that time, we must continue our research.”

“Perhaps your friends might be asked to look for Hawke?”

Solas cocked his head, thinking. “The Fade around Adamant is Nightmare territory, but I will make the request.”

“And your previous request … ?”

Solas shook his head. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. There is no sign of your phylactery in the Fade. I’m afraid we must look for it elsewhere.”

She should have known Solas would have come to her if anything was found. She couldn’t direct Inquisition resources to the search unless she admitted she had the phylactery in the first place. Perhaps Sera’s Friends could help or maybe Dorian would know a tracking or finding spell they could use.

“We will find it, Inquisitor. Do not doubt,” Solas said.

She only wished it were that simple.  

##

Cullen told her he wasn't any good at this, and he hadn't lied. He fumbled without prior experience. He had been infatuated with a woman he never could have and with whom he had been too inhibited to even speak to at the Ferelden Circle. His paranoia, shame and the lingering effects of the demon attack made him unfit company in Kirkwall. As a ranking officer, his subordinates were off-limits, and he didn’t want to bring Meredith's wrath down on a mage's head, even if his duty didn’t constrain him.

He wasn’t lonely. He had his work.

Now, he had her.

He prayed it was so, anyway.

"I find myself thinking about what will happen after. When this is over. I don't want to move on. Not from you. I don't know what you ... That is, if you ... " He turned away, having laid his heart at her feet and unable to look at her in case she rejected him. 

She made a place for herself in his arms. "Cullen, do you even have to ask?"

His knees almost buckled with relief, and he sucked in a deep breath like a drowning man who just broke the water's surface. It felt as though a great weight was lifted from him -- one he didn’t know he carried until this moment.

"I suppose not. I want --"

She bumped his desk, and a bottle tumbled to the floor, shattering his concentration. She gasped, and the noise went straight to his groin. He needed to hear the noises she made when she was lost in pleasure. He needed to have her cool, silken skin under his battle-scarred and calloused hands. He needed to test her ripe lower lip with teeth, lips and tongue. He needed to explore the hollow of her throat, the slope of her shoulders, the peaks of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

He thought he knew need in those dark moments when only a desperate act of will stopped him from succumbing to addiction, but he hadn’t begun to perceive the depths of obsession. He needed her more than the breath in his lungs. His need was sudden, complete and all-consuming. It drove out doubt and fear, leaving room for nothing else. It was born of scores of empty nights spent longing and a hundred hungry kisses.

Their eyes met, and hers reflected a need a fierce and overwhelming as his own. He was not alone.

Cullen shoved everything from his desk in one sweep. He wasn't sure if he forced her onto the desktop or if she pulled him down. He only knew she not only accepted his advances, but encouraged them. He gently freed her hair from its pins and ran his fingers through it, learning its softness and heft. It fell around her and framed her face like a dark halo. He ached with confinement, but it was a sweet ache that would soon be soothed.

She reached for him, but he pinned her hands above her head. He needed to be in control. She led in all else, and he was content to serve, but he needed to have authority in this area.

"Now, please, Cullen," she said.

He liked her begging, he realized as he struggled to keep his breathing even. He silenced her with kisses.

He demanded and she yielded.

She writhed beneath him as he kept her restrained and bruised her with his kisses, his stubble rasping against her soft skin. Holding her wrists with one hand, he grabbed the neckline of her tunic with the other. She looked up at him with languid eyes, lips parted.

"Yes," she said.

He tore the front of her tunic away, slowly, baring her flesh inch by slow inch. Then he tore away her binder with a single harsh yank. He tore her breeches from her, her hips jerking under the force of his assault. He pushed her knees apart, and she opened to him. If lyrium were half as so tempting, he would have never escaped its thrall. He ran his gloved hands over her body, luxuriating in her soft flesh. He skimmed his fingers along her inner thigh, and her muscles jumped. She shivered and moved restlessly under his touch.

He commanded and she acquiesced.

He stripped his gloves off, spread his fingers wide and pressed his palms to her flesh, forceful, touching as much as he could, his rough hands profaning her.

She sucked in a breath. "Your hands are warm." She strained into his touch.

"Not just my hands." He bent to kiss her hip, the smooth nave of her stomach, his hot breath feathering over her satiny skin. She tangled her fingers in his hair and whispered his name, and it sounded like a blessing.

He dominated and she capitulated.

She touched him briefly and infrequently, testing and cautious, but never looked away or closed her eyes. Knowing her gaze was on him as he used hands and mouth to express his devotion made him shudder. She swallowed her cries and he redoubled his efforts, wanting to strip away the last shreds of her control. She moved under his hands, directing him without words, and sang his name like a canticle.

He trembled and panted, unsure if it was withdrawal or a new intoxication. He traced the graceful arch of her ribs, then hesitated before delving lower and caressing her. She arched against his fingers and a rare sigh escaped her lips. Leaning down, he closed her eyes with kisses, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and stroked his hair.

"Please," she said.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. "My weight ... and the armor. I'll hurt you."

"Then hurt me, but don't make me wait any longer." She kissed his chin. "Please."

He unbuckled his belt, and she peeled the leather down over his hips and his legs to his knees, but no farther, halted by his greaves. She caressed him, and sweat beaded at his temples. He couldn't get enough air and his heart hammered against his ribs.

He advanced and she surrendered.

"Yes," she said.

He exhaled and relaxed. He gathered her in his arms, and she kissed him, her mouth bruised and forgiving. He pressed himself into her and buried his face in her hair, his head swimming with her sweet perfume. She bore his weight without complaint, but drew him closer, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his hips. He moved methodically, slowly, testing his endurance and committing her cries of pleasure to memory, should this be the only time she submitted to him.

He took and she gave.

He tried to draw it out as long as he could, but she moved in impossible ways, until he buried his face in the slender column of her throat and, growling, threw himself into the pursuit of satiation with brute force, the desk rocking alarmingly beneath them until she gasped, nails digging uselessly into his leather-clad biceps, and he thought he would die as he mercilessly thrust one last time with a snarl, crushing her shuddering body to his chest.

They laid limp and gasping for breath, entangled, and he was conquered.

 

They did not fall into an exhausted sleep until after the moon set. He was scarred, above and beneath the skin, and she began the long, slow process of replacing those scars and lingering horrors with a tattoo of kisses and caresses, unseen, but felt.

Sometime in the night, he awoke, shaking. He tried to ease out of bed without waking her, but she pulled him back down and wrapped her arms and magic around him, warming him, massaging away the pain.

“You cried out in your sleep.” She pressed herself close to him, skin-to-skin.

“At Adamant … I thought you were dead,” he said.

She kissed his shoulder blade. “I’m hard to kill.”

“The idea of losing you … ”

“I would never leave you,” she promised. "Wherever you go, I will follow, even into the Beyond." She spoke to him in low, soothing tones until the spasms passed and he could sleep again, her arms around him and her face pressed between his shoulder blades.

He had not slept so well since before Uldred's uprising.


	14. Cullen's Happy & Evelyn's Heartbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen thinks their relationship is just hitting its stride, but Evelyn has a secret that will destroy everything.

Evelyn stopped at the top of the stairs. "What is this?" There was a table near her fireplace, set in the Orlesian style. It groaned under a four-course meal, and all the dishes were her favorites. Nearby, steam rose from a full tub, and rose petals floated atop the water.

"Dinner, Lady Trevelyan." Cullen stepped out of her private wine cellar, holding a bottle of wine by the neck.

She raised her eyebrows. "Where is your armor, Ser Rutherford?"

He wore a subdued version of the uniform he wore at the Winter Palace: military cut in grays and dark blues without frills. It looked good on him and would look even better on the floor.

He smiled. "I think I'm safe here, with the Inquisitor.”

"What about with Evelyn?"

His eyes lit and his smile broadened. "I might be in an entirely different sort of danger, then." He popped the cork, poured a glass of wine and offered it to her.

"What sort of danger, Cullen?" She took a sip, enjoying the bouquet.

He sat the bottle on the table, and taking her by the shoulders, gently turned her so her back was to him. "Danger to my peace of mind," he said. He reached around and undid the fastenings on her coat as she leaned against his chest.

"Am I so dangerous?" She shrugged the coat off and let it fall to the floor in a heap of leather and metal, switching her wine glass from one hand to the other as she did.

"Evelyn is, yes." He pulled the pins from her hair, and she sighed in relief.  

"Luckily for you, you're just as dangerous," she said. "Let's call a truce on one another and enjoy dinner."

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her temple. "Agreed. Perhaps, after dinner, you'll want to play a game of chess with me?" He gestured to the balcony, and she was amused to see he had a table and chairs set up and a board ready for play.

"Perhaps. Or we might find a more intriguing way to while away the time."

"Everything in good time," he said.

"Not too much time, I hope," she said. "It has been a long time since I saw you last." She set the wine glass on the table and laid a hand on his chest and was gratified to feel his pulse jump. "And longer still since -- "

He kissed her so slowly and thoroughly that her breath stopped, her knees weakened and the only thing keeping her upright were his arms.

"Yes, the longest yet," he agreed.

She pulled him down for another kiss, pressing her body against his and marveling at how well they fit together. Her hands delved under his coat, and there was only a linen tunic between her hands and his flesh; much nicer than layers of steel and leather.

"The food will get cold," he said.

"Let it."

“So will your bath.”

“Let that get cold, too.”

He hesitated, then swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. "As my lady commands."

She traced the line of stubble along his jaw. "I do so command."

 

Evelyn awoke relaxed and untroubled. The bed was warm and soft, the birds sang outside and she was content in Cullen's embrace. She snuggled closer, and the rhythm of his breathing changed.

"Did I wake you?" she asked.

"No." He pulled her closer, blinking slowly and sleepily. "I was just considering trouncing you at chess again."  

"Wasn't twice last night enough?"

His smile curled her toes. "I don't recall twice being enough for _you_ last night," he purred.

She laughed. "You let me win that game in the garden, didn't you?"

"Yes. I wanted you to play me again."

"Then you can hardly complain about last evening, when you lured me back on false pretenses. Besides, I allowed you to win," she lied. "I didn't want to wound your pride. I was concerned such a mortal wound would inhibit your ability to do your duties."

"I always do my duty -- no matter how onerous," he said.

She sat up and flipped a pillow over his face, but that didn't muffle his laughter.

He pushed the pillow aside, grabbed her by her waist amid squeaks and squeals, and pulled her on top of him so she sprawled across him, made aware how ready he was to fulfill his duties.

She glanced around the room -- the picked-over meal and empty wine bottles, the trail of clothing to the bed and the stone-cold tub of water near the fireplace, which now held only embers. The servants must know her commander dined with her in her private quarters and stayed the whole night through.

"Have you heard?" She kissed his chin. "It is quite the scandal." She kissed his jaw. "Certainly the scandal of the year. Perhaps the decade." She kissed his throat. "The Inquisitor and her commander." She kissed his collarbone. "The poor man."

"I will have to endure. My soldiers will look at me with pity as I drag myself from your bed each morning, exhausted from your insatiable demands, a slave to the whims of the most powerful woman in Thedas."

She raised her eyebrows and stroked the proof of his exaggeration, smiling at his sudden intake of breath. "Insatiable demands?"

"I live to serve, Lady Inquisitor." His voice was husky.

She was short of breath herself. "A demonstration is required of you, Commander."

His smile was lazy and self-assured. "I hope to meet your expectations."

"Oh, you will."

##

Cullen couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Maker knew he tried, but he couldn't resist the smallest of touches: offering his arm as they walked together, a guiding hand at the small of her back when he held a door for her, a lingering brush of fingertips when they exchanged a missive.

Her smile when she caught him didn't deter him.

He complained so often of the unusual heat in the war room to explain away his near-constant flush the lady ambassador was convinced he was ill. Leliana only offered that blasted enigmatic smile of hers. He needed her touch as much as he once -- still -- needed the lyrium. Replacing that addiction with something more benign must be an improvement.

They were the talk of the keep. Even if he hadn't been told, Cullen couldn't miss the smiles and whispers that died at his approach. Damn it all, he wanted her to himself. He didn't want to share her with the world, but she was the Inquisitor and he didn't have a choice.

Cullen shook his head and turned the page. He was reading the Strategikon again.

They were successful at Adamant, but they were lucky Leliana obtained the plans revealing the flaws in the fortress. He had shown talent in his tactics classes long ago, and Cullen continued his studies at the Circles, fascinated by the subject.

He was experienced in training soldiers to fight and in commanding them, but he had no prior experience in leading armies, and he was determined the Inquisition would not suffer for his lack. The others might smile indulgently at his constant drills, but he knew a soldier rose only to the level of their training. Muscle memory saved lives in battle.

He was accustomed to planning his tactics around platoons, not brigades. So he studied: historical battles, theory and the works of generals both famous and obscure, human and otherwise. And he drilled the troops until every strike and parry was instinctual.

He would not fail his soldiers or his Inquisitor.

If anything happened to her, it would kill him as surely as a blade through his heart. He had to keep her safe, no matter the cost or vows broken.

Cullen yawned and rubbed his eyes, the print blurring in the low candlelight. He glanced over his notes, there was an interesting new stratagem he wanted to try, and he swore he'd seen something similar in the Strategikon. He would only read a few more pages ...

 

"Cullen, wake up." Fingers brushed his cheek.

He groaned. Every inch was sore. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Early morning," Evelyn said. "You spent all night at your desk, didn't you?"

He stood and stretched, glad he took his armor off before settling in with his books. He would have been too sore to move if he hadn't. "I hadn't meant to. I was going over some new tactics."

She hugged him from behind, pressing  her cheek against his shoulder blade. Magical warmth sank into his flesh, relaxing his sore muscles.

"That feels good," he said. Even six month ago, he would have been wary of a mage using her magic on him, and it would have been unthinkable three years ago. Of course, he wouldn't have fallen asleep in an unlocked room, either. He couldn't decide if it was carelessness or trust in those around him.

"You need to take better care of yourself." She kissed his shoulder, and although he only felt the faintest touch through his padded leather jacket, he smiled.

He smiled more just in these last few months than he did in the preceding eight years. "There's much to be done," he said. "I lose track sometimes."

"That's no excuse." She loosened the drawstrings on his gambeson. "You're going to work yourself into an early grave, probably from exhaustion." She pulled the jacket open.

"If I suffer from exhaustion, it's because you can't keep your hands to yourself."

She laughed. "I believe you're fighting a losing battle on that front as well." She tugged on the jacket and he shrugged free. Evelyn purred with pleasure, tossed the jacket aside and ran her hands up his back, testing his shoulders with her nails. "You have no idea how much pleasure I take in just looking at you."

Cullen turned, took her into his arms and kissed the sensitive spot beneath her ear, laying siege.  

"Cullen!" She laughed and squirmed, trying to escape. She knocked over a pile of books, and they hit the floor with a bang. "Oh, damn. Was that something you needed?" she asked.

Cullen remembered the last time she knocked something off his desk. “No.” He shoved the rest of books and papers from with desk with a crash.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin. "Making a mess, Commander?"

He kicked his desk chair out of the way with a clatter, and sank his fingers into her hips. He struggled to catch his breath. “‘Just assisting you in clearing my desk, Inquisitor." He slanted his mouth over hers, pulling her close, groaning as she ground against him. The keep was awake; did he dare take her, knowing someone could come to the door at any moment?

"Assisting me?" She hooked a leg around his waist. "Is that what you're calling it?" She kissed the hollow of his throat where his pulse throbbed and yanked his shirt from the waistband of his pants.

"Am I not assisting you?" He undid the top clasp of her tunic.

"Assisting me out of my clothes," she said.

"That _is_ assisting you." He reached the bottom of her tunic, then pushed it off her shoulders. “How did I become so lucky?”

“I might count myself lucky if you reciprocate.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, then let it flutter to the floor. “Better?”

“Very much so.” She ran a finger along his collarbones, then pressed a kiss above his hammering heart. Evelyn was undoing his belt when someone began banging, loudly and insistently, on the door.

“Go away!” Cullen snarled.  

The banging persisted.

"I locked the door," Evelyn whispered.

"You locked the door ... ?"  

She shrugged. "You looked so appealing."

"Slumped across the desk and drooling in the inkwell?" It was a wonder she wanted to seduce him when he was face down in paperwork, but Cullen wouldn't complain.

Evelyn pressed her fingers to her lips to smother her smile.

"Cullen!" Cassandra yelled. "Open the door!"

"Go away, Seeker!"

"Are you alright?" Cassandra said. "One of the guards said it sounded like your office was falling down around your ears."

Evelyn hid behind his desk and choked on her laughter.

"I'm fine, Cassandra." He ran his fingers through his hair, realized what he had done, then cursed roundly. "I require some privacy, if you don't mind."

"I do mind. Cullen, open the door so we may speak face-to-face, instead of shrieking at one another from either side."

He looked to his Inquisitor for aid, but she was doubled up, wheezing and wiping away tears of laughter.

"It isn't funny," he growled.

"Your face," she gasped between breaths. "Oh, Cullen, you should see yourself."

Cassandra resumed banging on the door. "Cullen! You asked me to watch you, and I can't do it from the other ride of the door."

"I am developing new maneuvers and don't wish to be disturbed, Cassandra!"

Evelyn broke into another fit of laughter. " ... maneuvers ... oh, Maker ..."

He glowered at her, then, realizing there was no hope for it, strode over to the door the Seeker was assaulting and opened it a crack.

Cassandra's eyes widened. "Cullen, are you ...?"

"We're discussing maneuvers," Evelyn called from behind Cullen's desk.

Cullen closed his eyes and counted to five.

"Is the Inquisitor behind your desk?" He could have wrung her voice out and bottled the scandalized tone.

"This isn't ... what it appears to be.” It was in the vicinity, and now that it occurred to him, it  wasn’t without merit. His face heated.

Cassandra’s gaze dropped from his bare chest to his waist. “Commander! In the middle of the day!”

… his belt was still unbuckled. Cullen counted to ten. “If you would excuse me, Seeker.” He cleared his throat. “The maneuvers.”

“Yes, the maneuvers,” Evelyn called. “I will speak to you later, Cassandra.”

“Oh.” Cassandra blinked. “Yes, of course. Maneuvers.”

Cullen sighed, then shut the door in Cassandra’s face. He counted to twenty. It didn’t help.

Evelyn rose, all lithe grace, and stalked toward him with a hip-swaying walk that, combined with her dishevelment, had him mesmerized.  

“What am I to do with you?” he asked.

She smiled. “I believe you said something about maneuvers … ?”

##

Leliana found Evelyn in her apartments, reviewing her own endless stack of reports. Her advisers did as much as possible to see that only the truly necessary crossed her desk, but it tended to pile up while she was in the field.

"I have something you need to look at," Leliana said.

"Put it there." Evelyn gestured to the desk. "I'll get to it."

"Josephine and I agree: This must be addressed immediately."

"Very well," Evelyn sighed. She picked up the report, then glanced up at Leliana, who stood in front of her desk, arms crossed. "Are you going to stand over me while I read it?"

Leliana motioned for her to begin.

Evelyn began reading and quickly went numb with shock. She struggled to keep her expression neutral -- Leliana watched her closely. Evelyn knew this would return to haunt her. The only real surprise is it took so long, given her new-found notoriety.

The report was short and didn't take long to finish. She put it down and looked at Leliana. Evelyn concentrated on deep, even breaths. It helped her keep her expression neutral, although she was panicking.

"Is this true?" Leliana asked.

It was a version of the truth, but Evelyn knew Leliana's true concern. "Yes."

Leliana grimaced. "If this becomes common knowledge, it will be disastrous for the Inquisition." She examined Evelyn closely. "Did it happen that way?"

"Do the circumstances matter?"

Leliana shook her head. "No. Either way ..."

"... it is a disaster."

"We must quash these rumors," Leliana said.

"They aren't rumors."

"We can't allow word of this to spread."

"No, Leliana. I won't have anyone harmed to protect my reputation from the truth."

"To protect the Inquisition!"

Evelyn smiled and knew it was strained, possibly even grotesque. "The Inquisition is more than one person. It is a collection of ideals, and we must hold to those ideals, even if the cost is high."

"How high of a price are you willing to pay? How high of a price will you have the rest of us pay?" Leliana asked.

Evelyn was tired, and she would have nightmares tonight. If she closed her eyes, she would hear the piteous screaming. "No innocents harmed to hide truth, Leliana, or else it was all for nothing."

Leliana bowed her head, deep in thought. "I will talk to Josephine. We will find another way."

"Thank you."

Leliana turned to leave, then stopped. "Inquisitor ... Evelyn ... Commander Cullen will see this."

That hit the mark; Evelyn closed her eyes. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

Knight-Captain Roarke had his revenge after all.


	15. Cullen's Shocked & Evelyn's Sorrowful

Cullen and Ser Barris patrolled the outer edge of the parade ground in the lower bailey.

“I don’t like it,” Barris said in a low voice. “They will be unfit for duty.”

"That may very well be, but we must give them the opportunity,” Cullen said. “They must be allowed to choose.”

“They chose to give their lives to the Chantry.”

“Not all of us were born the younger son in a noble house,” Cullen said. “Some of us were given to the Chantry before we had a chance to make a choice.”

Cullen made the choice -- made it gladly -- but he was mindful of the many who had not. Many of them had come from families where they had been one mouth too many. To have your entire fate decided because you were poor … Templars should not be accepted that way. Those who were unhappy in their service inflicted that unhappiness on mages.  

Barris’ mouth was a thin, unhappy line, but he didn’t deny it. “Regardless, we can’t be sure of the dangers. There isn’t enough information. One person … and we don’t the long-term effects yet.”

“But we know the longer they take it, the greater the risk that they will succumb to the forgetfulness. And we can’t know how it will affect them in general until more try it.”

Barris shook his head. “We are not sure that you will not.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Cullen, but I cannot risk it. These are my templars, and I am responsible for their safety. I can’t allow this … experiment.”

Cullen grimaced, but didn’t press Barris further. Evelyn had made the templars their allies, and he could demand no more than Barris was willing to give.

Rylen had been after him to allow some of the former templars he had brought from Starkhaven the opportunity to stop taking lyrium, but Cullen was loathe to allow them in the Western Approach, where so many dangers lurked. He knew better than anyone how debilitating the withdrawal could be.

Now he sounded like Barris … Cullen shook his head. “Barris, consider allowing this, once we have obtained our goal. There are few choices available to them, but this should be one.’

Barris bowed his head in thought. “I will consider it, Cullen. Once this is over.”

“That is all I ask.” It was all he could ask. Cullen no longer considered himself part of the Order, but he could not shake his concern for the templars who were the Order.

Barris bowed. “If that is all … ?”

“I know you have other duties to attend.”

Barris excused himself, and Cullen headed for his office. He had a stack of spy reports he had been putting off that he needed to review. He needed to be up-to-date on intelligence, no matter how distasteful he found it.

“Barris doesn’t understand.” Dorian fell into step with him.

“Doesn’t understand what?”

“What it is like to turn your back on everything you know and start a new life, because it’s the right thing to do.” Dorian was quiet for a moment as they took the stairs. “The only thing you _can_ do.”

Cullen never would have dreamed he had so much in common with a mage from Tevinter. “I don’t mind his lack of understanding,” Cullen said.

“No? Even though he stayed with the templars even after that disaster at Val Royeaux? He followed orders. Bad ones.”

Cullen opened his office door and held it for Dorian. “The lack of understanding is a blessing. I would spare others the suffering I inflicted and endured. Besides, I’ve followed bad orders, as well. Repeatedly,” Cullen said.

Dorian flopped into a chair. “Will you ever forgive yourself?”

“No.” Cullen settled himself behind his desk. He wasn’t the one who needed to forgive.

“You should come and have a drink with me. You work too hard.”

“I don’t have time for a drink,” Cullen said.

“That’s the problem. You never have time to relax. It’s unhealthy.”

Cullen smiled. “You worry too much.” Dorian fussed like a mother hen.

“Not enough, perhaps. You look wrung out. Is our dear Inquisitor keeping you up late?”

Cullen coughed. There was no good way to answer that question.

Dorian slouched in the chair. “You’re not going to answer that, are you?”

“No.” Cullen smiled and shook his head. “And it’s too early in the day to have a drink.”

“It’s never too early for a drink,” Dorian countered. “But, if you promise to have dinner with me this evening, I’ll leave you in peace with your reports.”

“A promise easily made.”

Dorian stood. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”

“Yes.”

“And we’ll have that drink.”

“Maybe,” Cullen said.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Still smiling, Cullen turned to his paperwork.

##

At dinner, she realized she was avoiding him -- and worse, he let her. She stayed in her apartments all day, going over reports, then asked for dinner to be brought to her. She never did that unless she invited Cullen to dine with her, and she hadn't.

The kitchens sent enough for two, oblivious.

When he finally came to confront her, he knocked and waited for her to open the door.

He slept with her as many nights as he did in his tower, although he didn't like enclosed spaces -- the size of the room and the vaulted ceiling kept his discomfort at bay, and it was lessened further with both sets of Orlesian doors open.

He had changes of clothes here, a shaving kit, the book he was reading, a half-written letter home. He had not knocked for some time.

Despite that, she knew it was him before she opened the door.

"Lady Inquisitor, may I have a word?"

"Commander, come in." She held the door open and hoped he wouldn't notice she was pale and her eyes red and watery.

He did not sit, although she asked Ser Morris to deliver a large, impressively overstuffed wing chair to her apartments because Cullen commented her delicate furniture creaked suspiciously under his weight.

Instead, he stood at parade rest and stared into the fire. He did not speak.

She didn't ask him why he was there. She knew. She also knew he waited for her to speak first. Confess, perhaps. Or beg forgiveness. Maybe both.

Evelyn began to undress and prepare for bed. He could stand and judge until the next age.

She took her hair down and her tunic off before he turned around.

"What are you doing?" His voice was low and rough, angry.

She sat on the couch and bent to unlace her boots, her hair sliding over her bare shoulders. "Getting ready for bed. I almost mistook you for new decor, although I hope Ser Morris wouldn't commission a statue with such a scowl." Done with one boot, she pulled it off, then moved to the second.

"This isn't appropriate."

"It is no more inappropriate than what you did to me last night or this morning. If you have something to say to me, Cullen, quit glowering at the fire and say it. It has been a long day and I am tired."

She glanced up in time to see the blush blooming in his cheeks. She wasn't sure if it was from anger or embarrassment. She took off the second boot, then stood to undo her trousers.

"I read the report." His gaze dropped to her chest -- she had no doubt her breasts were intriguingly framed and occasionally obscured by her hair -- before he looked away, his mouth a grim line.

"I had supposed so." Turning her back to him, she pushed her trousers down her hips, then kicked them off. "Did you want something, Commander?"

"Is it true?"

Her stomach turned over, but she turned and met his eyes. "Yes."

"Blood magic, Evelyn." He was devastated: It was written across his face, in his wounded tone and his sagging shoulders.

"I had no choice." She opened her chest of drawers, chose a night shirt and pulled it over her head.

"That's what everyone tells themselves -- there's no choice. And as they need more and more power, they have less and less choice."

She didn't do it for power, but survival. "You read the report. You know that isn't what happened."

"I read it, and it said you used blood magic." He ran his hands through his hair and paced. "You attacked templars."

"Yes." She sank down on the couch, leaning back, her knees drawn protectively against her chest.

"Why?"

"You have been to Greenfell." She hugged her knees.

He stopped and turned to look at her, but said nothing.

"You know the sort who are there -- not the old ones, the lyrium-addled, but the young ones, the broken ones."

Cullen was sent to Greenfell after Kinloch. He once was one of the broken ones. Perhaps he still was, and memories were dredged  up by this revelation. He nodded slowly.

"Most of them are too violent or too damaged to serve." Her chest ached, and she tried not to imagine Cullen among them -- Cullen as _one_ of them.  "What happened to Greenfell after the Order broke from the Chantry?"

He bowed his head. "I did not think --"

"No one did. The Chantry withdrew their sisters -- the nurses. The Seeker guards disappeared, lured away one by one by Envy." She swallowed. "What do you think happened to the men and women who gave their lives, their memory and sanity in service to the Order -- the lyrium-addled ones-- when they were left to the mercy of the others?"

"I --"

"Those were the templars I killed. Not for what they did at Greenfell, although they deserved it, but for what they did elsewhere. At my home."

He started, but didn’t speak.

"My father likes to say he is a wine merchant with a minor title." She smiled at the memory and was glad that was untarnished, at least. "He has -- had -- vineyards, orchards, farmhouses, a manor." She hugged herself tighter. "No walls and no soldiers, just the men and women who worked the yards and orchards. Their parents and grandparents did the same for who knows how many generations."

He began to say something and she held a hand up in a stop gesture.

She didn’t grow up at the Trevelyan vineyards -- she spent more than two-thirds of her life in the circle -- but she remembered them fondly: the dark loam between her bare toes to her father's delight and mother's scolding; the flowering trees in the spring, endless avenues of dappled light and floating petals; the gnarled grapevines, casting cool, fragrant shadows beneath the trellises; her fingers and mouth sticky with juice, the taste of peaches or plums on her tongue; and farm folk singing rounds during harvest.

She didn’t understand when she was sent to the circle. All she knew was her boisterous, amiable father became pale, strained and quiet and her mother wept late at night.

Evelyn had done something wrong.

When she was turned over to the templars, she stormed and raged as only a frightened, confused child could. It was the first time she had encountered a templar's abilities. It was shocking, having her natural ability to access the Fade smothered. It felt like not breathing, like her heart stopped mid-beat. It _hurt_.

Evelyn sobbed and begged her parents to let her return home, if they only would tell her what she did, she would be good, she would behave …

They left her there, and she wasn’t permitted to see them again for three years, not until the knight-commander judged her to be in control of her abilities.

"There was a knight-captain at Greenfell," she told Cullen. "Even in their state, the rest recognized his authority. He led them on what could only be called a rampage. They came to our estate, and they burned the orchards and vineyards to the ground."

"They crossed the Waking Sea to do this?" he asked.

She wanted to curl up into herself. "The knight-captain ... He was looking for me." She brought them to her family’s home.

Evelyn couldn't sit still, not with Roarke's specter lurking. She rose and paced, the nightshirt fluttering around her thighs.

Cullen said nothing, perhaps waiting. He couldn't be speechless, since he was ever-ready to defend the Chantry.

"The first group of farmers they came across, they rode down. My father's people offered them no violence, but hailed and greeted them. After all, they were templars. Protectors."

He turned away and regarded the fire. The crackle and smell of burning wood reminded her of the black and withered trees and vines, the ash that billowed up with each step and the ground, fire-hardened and cracked, that wouldn't bloom again for long and long.

Far worse were the bare and smoking bones of the farmhouses.

"They were farmers, not soldiers and, attacked without warning or provocation, few escaped. One of them told us about the murder of his neighbor's daughter. But we already knew something was wrong. We had heard the screaming.

“They took turns skewering her. I pray she died quickly. She was ten years old." She stopped pacing, closed her eyes and hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

She had seen Gwynne only that morning, running barefoot through the orchards, laughing, flowers in her long, dark hair and fruit juice smeared on her chin.

"Her brother was eight. When he tried to protect his sister, your fellow templars cut him in half."

She stalked toward him, the intensity of her anger and grief making her nauseous. Her hands shook. She felt much the same when she made that first cut and reached for the power the Circle said was forbidden.

"We had no soldiers, no walls to protect the few who escaped, so yes, I used blood magic." She circled around so she could see his face, read his expression, but it was blank and closed. She held out her left arm and angled it into the light so he could see the long, faint scar that ran down the inside of her forearm. "Condemn me if you want, but your brothers- and sisters-in-arms gave me only the choice to either allow innocent people to die or do the unthinkable." She shook with adrenaline and anger.

He took her wrist gently, turning her arm so he could see the scar better. He ran his fingers down the faint line, his touch light. Her mark stuttered and spit green sparks.

"I have seen you fight, and fight templars," he said. "Was blood magic necessary?"

"I wanted them to hurt as they died. Is there anything else, Commander?"

"No." The word was hard and cold as a stone. "Good evening, Inquisitor."

He left without another word.

She sank to her knees in the middle of the room, bowed her head and listened to the screaming that never left her.


	16. Cullen's Horrified & Evelyn's Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is the king of subtle, and Cullen ... well, he's not.

Cullen walked along the battlements, observing the troops drilling in the yard. These were the rawest recruits, and once they'd received basic training, they would move out to the valley for further training and assignment. Maker knew, between the merchants, supplicants, dignitaries and spies, Skyhold was bursting at the seams.

His lieutenants kept pace and he quietly discussed the strengths and weaknesses, needs and potential of this newest batch of recruits.

Since his confrontation with Evelyn, he had thrown himself into his work with such a will he was caught up on his paperwork for the first time since he arrived from Kirkwall.

He was disturbed, but did his best to hide it. Leliana and Josephine made the report disappear, and no one seemed to be aware of it. He hated the duplicity, even as he acknowledged they were on shaky ground already with a mage as the Inquisitor. There was so much fear of mages. Cullen had been prey to it once and was not yet completely free of it, if he were honest. The Chantry fed it, and the war did nothing to dissipate it.

He had to weigh the actual good the Inquisition did against the potential harm the cover up could do ... and he wanted to protect Evelyn. He clenched his fists and asked his lieutenant to repeat what she'd just said about a promising sword among the latest arrivals.  

He told himself he would not allow his principles to be compromised; a promise not easily kept. He was afraid to find out how much of himself he was willing to give up to keep her safe.

Blood magic was seductive, easy and required little effort for a substantial gain. Most blood mages began desperate, just like Evelyn, and ended worse, once they were lured down the easy path to power. It happened in such small, easily dismissed increments. It was easy to justify using your own blood, then animal blood, then others' blood, if you didn't kill ... until the power you wanted cost lives.

His nightmares had returned with a vengeance. He wanted to think that, should she become like Uldred, he would stop her, but he secretly doubted he could strike the killing blow.

He never imagined anything could repulse him as blood magic did, but harming her was unthinkable. _This_ was why mages and templars weren't allowed to fraternize.

Done with his inspection, he dismissed his officers, then turned to look out over the valley, letting the crisp breeze wash over him.

She tormented him, telling him he must kill her if she became an abomination, but a mage became such through weakness or poor judgement. Becoming a blood mage was a deliberate choice. If she was seduced by blood magic, she was in position to do more harm than Uldred ever dreamed. And yet, if she hadn't done as she did, perhaps she would have died. It was impossible to guess what series of events would have followed, but thinking he easily could have never met her or knew the lack made his chest tighten.

"Ah, there you are."

Cullen turned toward the sound.

Pavus strode along the battlement, a hefty book tucked under one arm. "I've been looking for you," he said.

"Can I do something for you?" Cullen asked.

"It's what I can do for you." Pavus offered him the book with a flourish. "The journal of an Altus from House Thalrassian who traveled the teyrnirs that became Ferelden. Her writing at length about her fascination with the Alamarri men" -- he cleared his throat -- "being considered perverse aside, there's quite a bit of history here. I thought it might interest you."

"How did you know I've an interest in history?" Cullen asked.

"Someone may have mentioned it," Pavus said vaguely.

Evelyn, without a doubt. Cullen stifled any curiosity about what else she might have said about him. It likely wasn't complimentary of late.

"Thank you." Cullen accepted the book. The leather cover was battered and cracked. It must be hundreds of years old. "A generous gift."

"Quite, actually. I had to send to Minrathous for it, but if you quit walking around like your mabari died, it will have been worth it."

Cullen clenched his jaw. "Thank you," he repeated.

Pavus waved this off. "Honestly, I prefer smug over heartbroken. If you don’t recover from this, I’m going to have to let you win even more chess games."

"I --"

"Oh, don't bother denying it. At least I didn't have to listen to you having nightmares all the way back from the Emerald Graves. Bloodcurdling, the things the Inquisitor cries out in her sleep, and they're getting worse." Pavus shrugged. "The healer ought to have her under sedation by now, so maybe she will get some decent sleep. Alright, then, you've got your book, and I'm off to get my supper."

Cullen grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder. "What's this about the healer?"

"Oh, that? I didn't think you'd be interested." Another shrug, hindered by Cullen's hold. "I'm sure the Inquisitor will make a full recovery. Now, if you don't mind ... ?"

Cullen let the other man go, sure he gave Pavus just the reaction he wanted.

Pavus made a show of brushing himself off. "I will probably bruise." He winked at Cullen. "I had no idea you were into that sort of thing." He turned and, whistling, made his way back to the main hall.

Cullen ground his teeth and waited until Pavus entered the building, then took the closest stairs to the inner bailey. The infirmary was adjacent to the quartermaster, and he had some items he needed to discuss with Ser Morris. He would check on the Inquisitor, briefly, as a purely professional matter.

The inner bailey was crowded. News traveled fast; bad news, especially. Cullen shouldered through the crowd, reaching the infirmary just as Cassandra exited.

"Commander," she said.

"Seeker," he returned. "Is she ... ?"

Cassandra smiled, and he couldn't help but relax slightly.

"She will be fine," she raised her voice to be heard by those pretending they had legitimate business in the area. "This is a precautionary measure."

A murmur of relief swept through the crowd and they began dissipating, many trooping into the Herald's Rest.

Once they had privacy -- or the closest thing to it in Skyhold -- Cullen asked Cassandra, "what happened?"

"She has been sloppy of late," Cassandra said in a low voice. "She was backing away from a giant and managed to attract the ire of a great bear. It wouldn't have been so bad, but the wound became infected on our way back and she became feverish, delirious. She was ... quite agitated."

He hissed in sympathy. Bad enough to be wounded, but for it to become infected ... "Did she not see the bear?" A great bear was fourteen feet tall on its hind legs and weighed a fifteen hundred pounds. One was hard to miss.

"As I said, she has been sloppy." Cassandra paused. "She is not sleeping well. Her nightmares are as bad as they were after Therinfall or Adamant."

"Is she asleep now?" he asked.

"She will be soon." She took hold of his wrist as he turned toward the quartermaster's office. "Cullen ... I do not know what happened between the two of you, but if you can find it within yourself to make peace, please do so."

He closed his eyes. She did not know what she asked. Cassandra didn't know about the blood magic. Leliana and Josephine had not asked him to keep it from her, but he acted to protect Evelyn despite his disillusionment.

"I will try, Cassandra."

She nodded and left for her quarters above the armory and likely some well-deserved sleep.

Cullen knocked on Ser Morris' door and was admitted without sparing a backwards look for the infirmary.

##

Evelyn opened her eyes and cried out. Her back was on fire, and she had rolled over while she slept. She struggled back onto her stomach; even that was difficult. She was weak and trembling. Her lips were dry and cracked, and her tongue felt like cotton. A dull headache throbbed and her thoughts were hazy and indistinct, scattering whenever she tried to organize them into sense.

“Would you like some water, Inquisitor?”

Maker bless the nurse. She looked up and froze. “Go away.”

Cullen frowned and set a glass of water down on the bedside table next to a musty old book. “Inquisitor?”

She closed her eyes. She was tired of these fever-dreams. “Go away. You’re not here. I’m tired of seeing you when you’re not there.” She sank down on the pillow and wanted to curl up into a ball, but couldn’t without risking opening her wounds. Of course, Cullen wasn’t there. He didn’t want to have anything to do with her that wasn’t solely Inquisition business. He wouldn’t watch over her while she was sick. The idea was ludicrous and proof it merely was a dream.

Cullen spoke to someone in a low voice, and Evelyn felt a draft as her blanket was folded down to bare her back. There was a tug as her bandages were removed and she sucked a breath in between her teeth as something warm -- likely pus -- oozed across her back.

“It looks worse,” Cullen said.

Evelyn buried her face in her pillow. It would scar. She hadn’t seen it, but knew the bear had taken two good swipes at her, one with each paw, from shoulder to hip, forming an X-shape on her back. She would be dead if it weren’t for Cassandra. It was a good thing Cullen never wanted to see her naked again. The scars on her back might remind him of the one on her arm.

“She’s healing,” the surgeon said. She wiped Evelyn’s back clean with gentle hands, then put salve on her wounds, followed by clean bandages. The salve numbed her back and smelled strongly of elfroot. “Rest, Inquisitor,” the surgeon said. “The best thing for you right now is sleep.”

More low murmurs -- did she hear Josephine? -- then quiet.

“Did you want something to drink, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked.

“Go away,” she commanded, her eyes shut. “I know you’re not there.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You hate me.”

“No, I don’t.”

He sounded disappointed. She wanted to throw a fireball at him, even if he was a fever-dream.

“You hate blood magic. I used blood magic. You hate me.”

“You are being reductive and ridiculous, but I’m not going to argue with you while you’re unwell.”

She propped herself up on her elbows so she could look at him. He was terribly handsome, even when he was only a hallucination. “You just did.”

He sighed and offered her the glass, holding it so she could drink. She gulped water. Maker, it tasted better than anything in recent memory. By the time she had her fill, her arms were trembling, so he helped lower her to the bed.

Cullen settled back into a chair and picked up his book. It was thick and he opened it nearly a quarter way through.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“A historical text Dorian gave me.” He looked at her. “Someone told him I was interested in Ferelden history.”

“Someone told him that before you decided you hated her.”

“I wish you would stop saying that. I don’t hate you. My feelings are … much more complex.”

“Your feelings are that you wish I would have died rather than use blood magic.” She yawned. If he had put something in her water, Maker help him … “Once, to save my life and the lives of others … and you … “ She shook her head and yawned again.

He shut the book with a bang. “Is that what you think? That I would prefer you died?”

“I am maleficar, according to the Chantry. Why don’t you be a good templar and kill me as you should? Oh, wait, you need me to save the world. Maybe later then. Templar typical … ”

“I could not hurt you, not even if you were possessed. I could not ... “

She yawned. She could no longer keep her head up. “If you couldn’t hurt me, then why are you doing it now?” Evelyn sighed. “Just go, please. Seeing you _does_ hurt me.” She wanted no more of these fever-dreams. At least this one wasn’t as bad as the last one.

“What was it? You had a nightmare?”

She blinked. She didn’t think she spoke aloud, but it was only her imagination, so she shouldn’t be surprised.  “Not a nightmare, I have nightmares about things that _did_ happen, not things that _won’t_ happen.” She yawned. “This was a fever-dream. Cullen told me he loved me unconditionally.” Her eyes drifted shut.

She would have sworn she heard him curse vehemently as she sank down into the blackness.


	17. Cullen's Disillusioned & Evelyn's Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Angst. Cullen makes a decision, and Evelyn makes a resolution.

She was the Herald of Andraste and she was maleficar. She couldn't be both, and if she wasn't, then Cullen had misled the faithful. If she was, then Chantry teachings were wrong.

Andraste preached against blood magic, or so he was taught.

Perhaps Andrate deliberately chose an imperfect vessel, or perhaps the Maker's hand wasn't in this affair, and it was pure chance that allowed them to achieve this much.

_Cullen told me he loved me unconditionally._

Cullen pressed his forehead to the sword's guard, kneeling in prayer, his unsheathed sword planted on the stone before him. He spent all his spare time in the chapel, praying, desperate for an answer, anything to resolve this crisis in faith. He sang the Chant of Light without thought, letting his mind wander.

_You must sing more often. It’s a pleasure to hear._

She was the Herald and she was maleficar.

And he loved her.

She was his first thought on waking and his last before drifting off to sleep. He thought to share some small part of his day with her dozens of times in the past few weeks, before reality crashed down. When their work brought them together, he was starved for her. At war table meetings, he performed menial tasks so he could be near her. The confusion in her eyes when he did some small kindness made his heart feel as though someone ran a sword through it.

He missed waking up next to her, hearing the rhythm of her breathing, her soft warmth snuggled up against him, as she laid quiet and serene in his arms. He would hold her and know he would go to any length to protect her. His hands twitched on the sword grip, thinking about touching her. He doubted she would endure his touch now.

 _You_ would _do what was necessary, as any templar would._

Cullen would do anything to protect her, except for that purpose the Chantry gave him.

If she became a blood mage or an abomination, he could not fulfill his vows. He once believed his vows to be sacrosanct, but he had so few left unbroken. The thought of harming her when even the smallest spark of what made her Evelyn, the smallest shred of the woman he loved remained ... Cullen's hands spasmed around the sword.

_Why don’t you be a good templar and kill me as you should?_

Cullen was no longer a templar, but he was unsure what that made him now. He was the Commander of the Inquisition, but he did not know what awaited him after their objective was achieved. He once thought the two of them would face it together, was secure in that belief, but his faith was shaken.

_There is no such creature as an ex-templar._

Sighing, he rose. The Maker didn't see fit to answer his plea.

"Commander Cullen?"

He bowed his head. "Mother Giselle."

"I have seen you here more often than usual of late. Is something troubling you?"

He hesitated. "There are many things on my mind. I pray I serve as well as I am able." He paused. "I doubt my ability."

"Humility is a virtue -- as long you don’t allow yourself to be shackled by self-doubt."

"Mother, do you think the Inquisitor is the Herald of Andraste?"

"What I think does not matter." She bowed her head in thought. "The people believe it."

"But isn't it wrong to misled them, if we knew she wasn't?"

"She gives them hope and brings order where there is none. If, by her actions, she increases the devotion of the faithful and brings the Chant of Light to others, then who is to say she is not _a_ herald?"

“We shouldn’t manipulate the people. We shouldn’t use their faith to do it. Their faith should be respected.” He fell silent, because he didn’t have the words to accurately express himself. Or he was afraid to say it: They shouldn’t use the faithful as the Chantry used the templars.

“We did not proclaim her a Herald, but an Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste was a title given to her by the people, because they needed a Herald of Andraste.”

Cullen couldn’t ask the question he wanted to ask. He couldn’t ask if the Herald of Andraste could use blood magic and still be the Prophet’s chosen. Instead, he said, “I don’t know what question to ask to get the answer I need.”

"The question you are looking for is not what she is, but what she does. If she does the Maker's work, then it does not matter what you call her."

Cullen wondered if he could ever go back to calling her Lady Trevelyan and mean it.

 

"Cassandra, I need to speak with you about the Inquisitor," Cullen said.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. "Have you finally come to your senses and forgiven her for Ostwick?"

He stared at her. "You know?"

"Yes, Leliana told me. She used blood magic to kill templars." She held her hand up in a stop gesture. "That is one way of looking at it. Another is to say she performed dangerous magic at great personal risk to save innocents from mad men. The truth is somewhere in between."

"You ... just accept this?"

"No. I weigh it against her actions: the sacrifices she's made and the people she has saved. She was frightened and desperate and she made a mistake. It didn't go as badly as it could have. Are we defined by our mistakes, Commander? The mage rebellion could be laid at my feet or yours or even Most Holy's. We all had opportunities to avert it."

Cullen bore more than a little responsibility for their current troubles. "You aren't concerned?"

"I'm not unconcerned, but neither am I willing to condemn. The Inquisitor's first concern was that no one should be harmed to hide this when it first came to light. She was willing to face the consequences of her actions -- including your disapproval." Cassandra was quiet for a moment. "After finding out the things I have about my Order ... I appreciate that honesty, even if I don't condone her actions."

"I doubt you will appreciate my honesty, Seeker."

She leaned against a post and crossed her arms. "Try me, Commander."

"You know any mage is at risk for possession, and with her connection to the Fade, the Inquisitor is at an increased risk."

Cassandra gestured for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. "If she is possessed, if she becomes an abomination ... it is my duty, my responsibility, but ... I cannot." He would not survive killing Evelyn. He would have no choice but to follow her into death.

"Cullen, did you think we would require you ... ?"

"I was a templar. I am trained -- "

"Not this time. This is not your burden to bear."

He closed his eyes. "Thank you."

##

The screaming stopped, and the silence was worse than the piteous cries for help; more ominous.

There was a far-off crash as a burning building collapsed. The fire whispered and roared. Wood smoke permeated the air, as morbidly pleasant as the smell of roasting meat. The burning fields cast a light as bright as day, but roiling clouds of smoke stung her eyes and obscured her view. The heat was breathtaking, dry and fierce. It sucked moisture from the air. Hair crisped and curled under its onslaught. The heat was so massive, it was visible as shimmering waves.

Evelyn was soaked with sweat. She trembled with exhaustion. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her skin was smeared with soot. She hurried from one patient to the next, pulling on the Fade, trying to keep her charges from departing this life.

She was never talented at healing.

In her dream -- in the Fade -- Evelyn choked back a hopeless sob.

One moment she was nearly sobbing in despair, and the next, she strode through the manor's foyer. Waves of dry heat pushed her hair back from her face and it trailed behind her like a comet's tail. Her back was straight, chin high and hands fisted. Blood ran down her left arm, tickling her wrist, coursing around her fingers.

She shoved open the doors with a crack and proceeded down the stairs and onto the front lawn without breaking stride. Her skin was tight, and the power that filled her threatened to overflow. At this moment, she was capable of anything. Evelyn bared her teeth in a snarl.

Knight-Captain Roarke was ahorse. The firelight threw strange shadows over him, and the flames around the sword of mercy on his chest appeared to flicker and dance like true fire. He was bareheaded, but his knights wore helms, and the firelight glinted strangely in their eyes, making them look red.

 _It's not the firelight, it's_ red lyrium _. Dear Maker, they were already mad ..._

"Roarke," she said. "You're a long way from Greenfell."

He sat back in his saddle, grinning. "Why aren't you in your Circle, mage?"

"The Circles are disbanded." She didn't tell him to leave. She didn't want him to leave. Evelyn pulled on the Fade, asking for more and more power and receiving it. Blood ran faster down her arm, soaking into the sleeve of her robe, unnoticed amid the soot, dirt and dried blood.

Roarke's grin broadened. "That makes you an apostate. We know how to deal with apostates."

The templars were unnervingly silent.

"Who gave you armor? Who gave you passage across the Waking Sea?" she asked. It was madness, to set such as these among the common folk.

_They left a trail of dead behind them, from Greenfell to Ostwick. I am responsible._

Roarke snarled, but the knights behind him didn't even stir. They were as still as the dead. "Change has come. We were cast aside, but have been given new purpose."

_Given new purpose by Corypheus or, more likely, Samson on Corpheus’ orders. They couldn't resist the chance to cause more turmoil and unrest and to deepen the mage-templar conflict. But they don't know who I will become or they wouldn't have merely let Roarke loose from his chain._

Roarke raised a hand and spell purge broke over her like a wave over a rock. He reared back, surprised.

She stepped forward, smiling. Evelyn raised her arm and pulled the sleeve back, so they could see the blood. Then, before they could draw swords or pool their abilities, she released the power she held back.

They began screaming.

The sound was sweet.

##

Cullen sat up with a jerk, panting. The nightmare, again, jumbled and confusing, but with a new twist: in his hand had been a sword, and he put it through Evelyn's heart, begging her to forgive him. Evelyn's broken body laid in a pool of cooling blood, but she was not an abomination, and he realized it much too late ...

He rolled over, pressing his forearm across his eyes.

He should have never let it come to this. Then he wouldn’t know this pain or how much he shut away. He could only imagine what uncharted pain awaited him now Evelyn realized he was unworthy of her affection. He tortured himself with thoughts of her moving on, finding someone whole and strong to love ...

He groaned.

He could not turn his back on his duty, but seeing her often, while unable to hold her and find that quiet peace that only existed in the circle of her arms was torturous. Perhaps he would find other quarters, he thought as he dressed. There were too many memories of what he could no longer have here. He settled his mantle around his shoulders.

There was much to do and no time for wallowing in self-loathing. That was a luxury he didn't have. Hope was another. He must set it aside and concentrate on duty. It would be his lifeline once again.

But he cared so little whether it saved him.

##

Evelyn sat up, pushed the blanket aside and slid out of bed. She needed the cold mountain air on her face. Crossing the room, she grabbed a cloak from the chaise by the stairs and wrapped it around her shoulders as she hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste.

The great hall was abandoned in the small hours of the morning, and she crossed it quickly, her cloak billowing around her, hair tumbling down her shoulders. She didn't encounter anyone in the inner bailey or the stairs, and the guards on the battlements gave her distance.

Evelyn lifted her face and let the crisp, cold mountain winds wash over her. The tang of pine was in the air, and the cold had a smell of its own. The valley was palest white, draped in blue and grey shadows. The moon rode high above, casting an icy silver light.

Everything was clean and cold.

She closed her eyes, ignoring the tears that ran down her cheeks. Oh, how they had _screamed_ …

She heard his heavy tread and breathed in the scent of oakmoss and elderflowers before he spoke.

“Lady Inquisitor.”

Evelyn opened her eyes. The moon cast dark shadows over his face and touched his armor with silver. He was cold and clean, too; so very cold.

She turned away. “Commander.”

“You are not resting well.”

“No.”

“May I ask what keeps you from rest?” he asked.

She wanted to see his face better, for him to step out of the shadows, but she was afraid she would see nothing but boredom or indifference. “Nightmares.”

He shifted. “Envy? The Nightmare?”

“Ostwick.”

He fell silent.

Her smile was bitter. “Concerned about my well-being, Commander?”

“Of course.” He sounded unsure, and that uncertainty made her heart ache.

“That is almost as comforting as knowing you stand ready in case I fall to blood magic and become maleficar.”

He jerked as if she had slammed a knife between his shoulders. Cullen turned away, swallowed by shadows. “Good morning, Lady Trevelyan.”

“Pleasant dreams, Commander.” She turned and walked away.


	18. Cullen's Caught & Evelyn's Crushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen does a Very Bad Thing, and Evelyn lets him have it.

"Hurry up, Sera," Evelyn hissed.

The second of the two guards had waddle-sprinted away, green-faced, five minutes ago, lasting a good ten minutes longer than her fellow. Evelyn didn't know how Sera dosed them and she was afraid to ask.

"Gimme a minute," Sera said. "It’s harder than I figured. Wot's he got in there? Gold bars and dragon eggs?"

Evelyn's nerves jangled as she watched for the guards' return, glancing over her shoulder at Sera, who attacked the lock with a pair of picks.

"Ah! Gotcha." The tumblers clicked and Sera slid into the room as quiet as a ghost.

Evelyn hurried after, trying not to make too much noise, but her footsteps echoed.

This wing of the fortress was as ramshackle as advertised, but for this single room, with fresh mortar and the smell of fresh-cut wood. The contents of the room were ... astonishingly mundane.

Shelves lined the walls, and they held history and spell books, artifacts, weapons and boxes holding smaller items. None of them were common, but neither were they of such unusual power or value they needed to be guarded so carefully. The sheer number of them permeated the air with enough magic that Evelyn sneezed.

"Bless you," Sera said. "Disappointing, innit?"

"It's not what I expected." Evelyn examined a row of staffs, then flipped open a box to find it was full of magic rings.

"Me either." Sera paused a beat. "I hoped he had a nudie painting in here."

"I didn't think you were interested." Evelyn picked up a scimitar glittering with fire runes, then put it down. Something important had to be here. The trick was discovering where he hid it. This was stage dressing.

"I'm not interested in the jackboot's ... jackboot," Sera scoffed. "Thought he might have one of you. I thought maybe he'd come in here and --"

"Sera!"

She shrugged. "That'd be more fun than this junk." She picked up a spell book, frowned at it, then put it back on the shelf. "What's he want with all this, anyhow?" Sera wrinkled her nose. "I thought templars hated magic." She picked up a lacquered box.

Cullen hated _blood_ magic; Evelyn bit her lip. "He's hiding something in all of this. It's suppose to confuse any would-be thieves." She picked up a small dagger glowing with an enchantment.

"Hold on." Sera produced a second, more delicate set of picks seemingly out of thin air -- like magic, although she wouldn't appreciate the comparison -- and applied them to the lock on the lacquered box.

Evelyn craned her neck to watch Sera work the lock. None of the other boxes were locked. The lock gave with a soft snick, and Sera tried to open the lid without success. She turned the box upside down and shook it vigorously, the lock's opened clasp jerking. "I got it. Know I did!"

"May I see?" Evelyn said.

Sera shrugged and relinquished the box.

Closing her eyes, Evelyn ran her hands along the box. It buzzed with magic. She scraped away some lacquer with the dagger. Runes shone beneath and the buzzing rose to a shriek.

Evelyn flung the boxes away; her hands felt as though they'd been stung by a swarm of bees. She shook them, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Whatever he's got in there, that must be it." She tucked her stinging hands under her arms, grimacing, and nudged the box with a toe. It was quiet.

Sera gave the box a wide berth. "Got some enchantment on it?"

Evelyn nodded. “A strong one.” She knelt and picked up the box, expecting to be stung any moment, but it remained quiet. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Wonder what it is,” Sera said. She still kept her distance from the box. “Must be valuable to go to all this.”

“Quite valuable.” Or perhaps dangerous. Evelyn turned the box over.

Strange, although she had solved a piece of the puzzle, it didn’t feel like a triumph.

 

Evelyn had known. She didn’t want to believe it, but a part of her had known since she laid hands on that damned box. She didn’t truly want to know what was in it, even as she furiously worked to unravel the enchantment. It was a small box, but it held a bombshell: a phylactery. It was magically sealed, a job done well. She recognized the work: Madame de Fer. Evelyn could hardly miss the small touches and flourishes that evoked Vivienne after they spent so much time fighting side-by-side.

"Who did you enchant this box for?" Evelyn asked her.

"My dear, you managed to open it." Vivienne examined it in the way mages shared, not only seeing the physical box, but also feeling the magic entwined in it.

"It was quite difficult." It was, but Evelyn needed to know what was important enough to entomb beneath Skyhold under both lock and key and guard. "I knew no one else was capable of it."

Vivienne gave Evelyn a sideways glance, well-aware the other mage was being effusive in her praise. "My congratulations, dear. The next time Commander Cullen asks me for a magical favor, I'll send him to you."

 

“You son of a bitch!” Evelyn raged, slamming the door with a bang behind her. The mark on her hand pulsed.

Cullen looked up from a stack of reports. The expression of surprise on his face was almost comical.

She hurled the box at him. She wanted to hit him with it, hurt him. She wanted to hurl a fireball right behind the box. It was only as he caught it she realized she relinquished control. She cursed under her breath, then louder, because, damn it, she wanted to curse and rail. “Explain!”

His face was slack with surprise as he turned the box over in his hands. He stood, then glanced at her. “We should not have this conversation when you are this angry.”

She looked for something else to throw at his head. “It is going to be a very long time before I am not angry, and I want an explanation now, Commander Rutherford!”

“How did you get this?” he asked. “It was supposed to be secure.”

The bookshelf! She crossed the room. “Sera lured the guards away and picked the lock.” She pulled a history of the first blight off the shelf and hefted it. She judged it weighed three pounds or more.

He frowned. “I’ll have to get new guards. And additional security measures. Maybe Varric -- ”

She spun around and hurled the book at his head. “Where did you get my phylactery?”

He ducked it easily. “We found it on you when you fell out of the Fade. What did Sera do to the guards?”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?!”  

“I am trying to keep you safe.” He turned and paced, box in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. “I don’t think we should have this conversation while you’re behaving erratically.”

Evelyn turned and snatched a second book off the shelf and hurled it at him. His back was to her, but he somehow batted the book out of the air -- absently, even.

She ground her teeth together. “Why did you keep it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave the book on the floor a pointed look. "Do you plan on destroying my library?"

She threw another book at his head.

He caught it. Maker, he was _fast_. She sucked a breath in and her stomach fluttered. She shook her head and narrowed her eyes, refocusing on her righteous anger. She wouldn't be distracted by petty physical attraction.

"Why?" A sob almost strangled the word in her throat, as the weight of his betrayal crashed down on her. Her chest felt as though it was crushed.

He crossed the room and sat the book he caught on his desk. "We should have this conversation another time, when you're not so emotional. It is not … good for your control."

She braced her hands on the desk and leaned in. "Tell me why!"

He looked down at the box -- which he hadn't released since it came into his possession. "You had it when you came out of the Fade."

"Because it is mine!"

He raised his eyebrows. "We both know it was taken from the Circle, not given."

She bristled. "The first enchanter gave it to me!"

"Doubtless without permission, but ..." He shook his head. "We didn't know what the mark would do to you or how it would affect your self-control. The mark ... It was killing you. So I took it for safe-keeping."

She just bet he did. Maker-cursed templars! She knew better. She whirled around, intent on snatching another book and hurling it at his head, but he circled around the desk -- so quick! -- and grabbed her wrist before she could reach the shelves.

"Why insist on answers you don't intend to listen to?" he asked. His voice was a low growl that shortened her breath.

She pulled futilely against his hold. She might as well wear an iron manacle. Unable to free herself, she wound up to slap him, but he pinned her against the wall and clasped both wrists above her head before she knew what was happening. They had not been so close since … Evelyn closed her eyes and refused to take the deep breath she wanted, to inhale the scent of his skin.

She needed to remember not to engage with him in close quarters. His speed, size and combat training gave him an advantage.

Next time, she would rain fire on him from a distance.

"You're acting like a fishwife," Cullen said. "Thank the Maker no one else is here to see you behave this way. For someone who takes such pride in her self-control, you are quick to react with violence."

Her control was very good, just not when it came to him. He breached her carefully constructed walls without even trying and made her an appalling mess. Hot tears pricked her eyes and she tried stamping on his foot, but he was too fast.

"If anyone would know a fishwife, it would be you, Cullen of Honnleath!"

He narrowed his eyes. "Have I offended your delicate sensibilities, Lady Trevelyan?"

"No more than most templars," she said sweetly, because she knew false politeness irritated him. "But the lot of you are nothing but mannerless louts."

"This former templar is a mannerless lout you begged to kiss and make love to you," he whispered in her ear. "And Ferelden, but not even a dog lord, to add insult to injury. It seems your tastes are sadly pedestrian, Lady Trevelyan."

She trembled and closed her eyes, hating him, but hating herself even more. He stole her control. "This is not a Circle and I am not your prisoner!" she snarled. "Tell me why -- why you kept it and why you kept it a secret from me!"

The color drained from his face.  "You know why. You delight in reminding me of my history as a templar. What would a templar do with a phylactery?"

"And I worried it fell into the hands if an enemy who would use it against the Inquisition. I should have looked at the enemy closer to hand." She knew better than to trust a templar with anything, let alone her most tender feelings. She was such a fool to have made herself vulnerable.

"Evelyn."

"Don't you dare 'Evelyn' me."

She yanked against his grip, and he released her. She stalked across the room, and he said nothing, only watched her, his arms crossed and body tense. "How dare you lay hands on me!" Even as she chided him, she knew she would never throw things at her other advisors or companions. And she quite often had begged him to lay hands on her. Being close to him again was … potentially addictive.

He didn't throw it in her face, although he knew it as well as she did. They erased the line between professional and intimate long ago, no matter the distance between them now. This lie of omission wouldn't hurt as badly coming from anyone else. That it hurt so much after so long an estrangement only made her angrier.   

"Evelyn, it had to be me." He struggled with the words. "I had to keep it."

She shook her head -- wanted to put her hands over her ears, but didn't -- and made for the door. She did this all wrong -- she should have kept the phylactery and said nothing. He would have discovered its disappearance, possibly later, depending on how long it took his soldiers to admit they left their post, mysteriously stricken with twin cases of severe gastrointestinal distress. She felt a twinge of guilt, despite Sera's assurances it was temporary and harmless. Cullen would have come to her once it was discovered the phylactery went missing, and she would be in a much better position. Instead, she lost control when she realized he had it all along and never so much as hinted at the truth. Had, in fact, bald-faced lied to her.

He said her name again, and the raw emotion in his voice stopped her, despite her anger.

"It had to be me," he said. "Who else could stand against you if ... if what I feared came to pass? And I could not trust anyone else to be quick and kind, to ensure you suffered no more than necessary -- I did not know what we would become to one another. I did not know that I wouldn't be able to ... fulfill that duty, if it came to it."

She met his eyes, saw the pain and doubt he wrestled with and almost forgave him. Almost. "Good evening, knight-captain."

He recoiled at the discarded honorific, then turned away.

Evelyn closed the door gently behind her.

If she didn't love him, then why did it hurt so much?

And if he didn't love her, then why was it so easy to injure him?

##

Cullen sank down behind his desk, sprawling in his chair. He felt light-headed.

Maker, what had he done?

_This is not a Circle and I am not your prisoner!_

The urge to keep her from everything and anything that could harm her was a compulsion. His devotion had darkened into obsession.

At some point, life became nothing more than rote duty and trying to mitigate the damage around him. He expected nothing, wanted nothing, hoped for nothing. It was safer that way. Then, she came into his life: fighting with him and for him. Making him rage and laugh and hope and feel. Making him want to touch her, even though the demons of the past still haunted him. Making him hope he could come out on the other side of his addiction, finally whole again in a way he wasn’t since he took that first draught of lyrium, finally worthy of his vows.

It was too much to ask. He told himself he shouldn't hope. Hope only led to disappointment and worse. Life was a series of horrors and disappointments, but you could temper them if you just gave up hope. Until she wouldn't let him. Until she said she couldn't stop thinking about him, and he realized it hadn't been his imagination or a wishful interpretation -- she was flirting with him the entire time.

That was good, but came after was better: the breaks she forced him to take when the headaches became unbearable; waking him when he was in the grip of a nightmare, freeing him from it and lying quietly, soft and blessedly real in his arms, until he could sleep again; teaching him to laugh and anticipate again -- to hope again. All his happiness was wrapped up in one person -- one who continually threw herself at Fade rifts -- and it was terrifying. She didn’t know how fragile she was, and therefore, how fragile his peace of mind. He would do anything to protect her, even lying to her.

He ran his hands over the small box. He didn't keep it safe. He couldn't keep her safe.

And she wouldn't let him.

He opened the box and murmured the activating words under his breath. The phylactery glowed brightly, indicating the mage whose blood it held was nearby. He picked it up by the chain, looping it over his fist as he was taught all those years ago, and held it aloft. The phylactery swung in an arc, always in a northwesterly direction. She had gone to her apartments or the war room. He thought about going to her, then discarded the idea. He would give her space and hope that was the right thing to do.

He deactivated the phylactery's spell and it hung, motionless and dark, from his fist -- just as it would if she died. He put it around his neck and tucked it beneath his clothing.

Next to his heart.


	19. Cullen's Reflective & Evelyn's Remorseful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Evelyn discuss their feelings with everyone but one another, because that would be much too sensible.

Cullen looked up at the sound of a knock at his door. Maps of the Emerald Graves were spread across his desk. They would move soon on Corypheus, and Cullen had to consider every possibility.

“Cassandra.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Have you come to say I told you so?”

“No.” She stepped into his office and shut the door softly behind her. “You are miserable, as is the Inquisitor. You are my friends, and I take no pleasure in your unhappiness.”

He sighed and rolled his shoulders. His body ached. “That was unkind of me.”

“I forgive you.” Cassandra leaned against the wall, crossing her arms.

“I seem to be looking for forgiveness in many places lately, and the Inquisitor deservedly withholds it.” They had not spoken since she discovered his deception. Even at the war table, they spoke around one another.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Are you so sure she will not relent? She cares deeply for you.”

“I don’t deserve her forgiveness, so I will not hope for it. Her anger is … fierce.” He knew better than to have had hope.

“Her anger won’t last forever.”

“Have you ever seen her back down once she has made a stand?” he asked.

“Certainty can be a strength, but pride is her greatest flaw. It makes her truculent and foolish,” Cassandra said.

It was Cullen’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Is it foolish to mistrust someone who has been dishonest with you?” Perhaps if he had told her when Cassandra urged him, she wouldn’t have felt so betrayed. Perhaps his thoughts wouldn’t turn to every mistake he had made until sleep was impossible.

“It is foolish to turn your back on happiness,” Cassandra said.

Cassandra was a romantic. “Protecting yourself from disappointment isn't turning your back on happiness,” he said.

“It isn't? Stubbornly clinging to misery because happiness requires forgiveness and setting aside wrongs isn't? Are you saying she isn't prideful and it isn't costly?”

He ran his fingers through his hair; it was a bird's nest anyway. "You know what I mean!”

“That you deserve every bad thing that has happened to you so you can endlessly atone for the Ferelden Circle and the Gallows? That the sole responsibility and blame for those failures and cruelties rest on your shoulders? That you alone must answer for it? When will it be enough, Cullen?” Cassandra pushed off the wall and paced as she spoke, tugging at her gauntlets.  

“I don't know. Perhaps she does.”

“She only knows that you affronted her and hurt her pride ... and her heart. I'm not sure which she is more angry over.”

Cullen closed her eyes; he _knew_. “Her heart.”

“If so, then she knows the balm to ease it.” She paused. “I cannot give you good advice in this. I am not quick with words. I am better with action: I see what needs to be done and do it. The Inquisitor is a woman of words. I don’t know what words to give you to fix this. But you must find them, because you -- we -- can no longer go on like this. It is poisonous.”

Cullen was to blame, no matter what Cassandra said. He had created this division and could only pray his mistakes didn’t end in disaster.

##

"You needn't forgive him if you don't want to, my dear."

Evelyn jumped. "Lady Vivienne! You startled me."

Vivienne raised an eyebrow before sauntering forward to the balcony rail. "I stood there for several minutes, unremarked. You couldn't have done a better job of cutting me dead if you meant it." She glanced down at the outer bailey, where Cullen walked along the battlements, lieutenants trailing behind like ducklings. "He can see you from there, my dear."

Evelyn lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

Vivienne leaned against the railing and glanced toward the great hall, then toward the rotunda. "You can't see him from your apartments, can you? The bulk of the keep is in your way. A pity; you would have been high enough to escape notice.

"You could see him from Leliana's balcony, but she would take note and figure it out. And he would still see you. So, here you are."

"I could be conferring with a fellow Circle mage," Evelyn said. It was not so far-fetched. She adored Dorian and respected Solas, but no one else understood her experiences the way Vivienne did.

"Oh, my dear!" Vivienne put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.  

Evelyn sighed. She fooled no one. She knew this was possible from the start -- in fact, was a good reason for restraint, but she was swept up in physical attraction.

That they were so incompatible wasn't surprising, but her inability to move on did surprise her. And mortified her, because it was obvious to anyone who looked. Her control disappeared and she behaved like a silly girl in the first flush of infatuation. She was the Inquisitor; people were watching, looking for a weakness. She shouldn’t give them one, especially not one so obvious.

Cullen didn't look up even once.

"I never asked for this," Evelyn said. "Any of this."

Vivienne smiled. "Your reluctance reminds me of something my dear Bastien was found of saying: Power is safest in the hands of those who don't desire it and will relinquish it when their task is done. He was wrong, of course. Power should be wielded by those who understand the consequences of doing so and accepts them."

"Why can't it be both?"

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown, darling. Difficult decisions must be measured and made. Those who shrink from power are truly shrinking from the responsibility and accountability it demands."

“All those mages lost in Redcliffe, because I made a decision …”

“All those mages lost because they made a decision to become apostates, because Fiona made a decision to ally with Tevinter and because when they were told to march on those who did them no harm, they obeyed,” Vivienne said sharply. “After all of their complaining about templars obeying bad orders.” She shook her head. “All those mages lost because a small group of malcontents voted to dissolve the Circles, thinking they knew what was best for everyone.”

"I don't know what is best for everyone," Evelyn said. "I feel like I'm groping blindly in the dark. Every decision I make comes back to haunt me … " She bit her lip and looked down at Cullen. Their relationship was a tangle of power imbalances and broken pieces. Her heart was heavy at the thought that she hurt him. It was madness, confessing her feelings to him. She was the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor, religious figure and leader. How could he tell her no?

But … how could he have _lied_ to her if he believed her to be a holy figure?

"There is no shame in missing him," Vivienne said. Her gaze was unfocused and her voice soft and somehow sad. "In wanting the familiarity, the normality of that relationship back and not knowing how to act now that you are no longer one half of a couple.

"You have a choice to make: to forgive him or not. Surely you've had relationships in the Circle that ended on a sour note by now?" Vivienne arched a perfect eyebrow. "At first, it is uncomfortable, even awkward, but if you are patient and polite, you can continue to work together. The discomfort will fade. That is what I advise you to do: Let time ease your discomfort.

"If you forgive him -- and, frankly my dear, I don't advise it -- then you must forgive him completely. Don't do it to hold it over his head or humble him. Men like the Commander don't humble easily or well." Vivienne looked down at Cullen. "It will become poisonous."

Evelyn glanced down at Cullen, who disappeared into the guard tower. She wasn’t sure it hadn’t already poisoned her. “I don’t know if I _can_ forgive him,” she said. “I know he is trying to leave his past behind him, but I don’t think I can … ” Cullen had made her happy, but she couldn’t ignore the things he had done. He might someday atone, but she was uncertain she could forgive.

“I understand,” Vivienne said. “He has … much to work through. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to be his method of doing it. I don’t recommend it, but if you do -- if you do, be sure you’re up to it, and be sure you want it.

“Otherwise, it will be a disaster.”

##

Cullen sat astride his destrier, Dauntless, watching the portcullis rise as rain dripped down his nose. It had rained for days. The baileys were sloppy, muddy soup, and the castle staff was pressed to keep the floors dry, let alone clean.

He had been cooped up in Skyhold with little to do other than go over the details of their impending assault on the Emerald Graves. The supply caravans and their escorts would begin the trek soon, once the mountain passes were dry and passable again, and he went over the checklist repeatedly. Ser Morris took to hiding when he saw Cullen coming.

Everything needed to be perfect. It was the only way he could still show her how he cared, and he would perform to the best of his ability.

The portcullis rattled up, and he nudged Dauntless into a ground-eating trot. He just needed a short ride, just a few minutes of peace. Of course, he would likely spend that time as mired in self-condemnation as his troops were mired in mud. It didn’t matter; he needed to get away, just for a little while. Evelyn’s presence haunted Skyhold, whether she was in residence or not.

Dauntless’ hooves rang on the bridge between Skyhold and the valley. He was less than halfway across the bridge when he heard a second horse behind him. Turning in the saddle, he spied Leliana on a grey gelding, gaining.

Her hood was pulled low, but he caught the white flash of teeth as she grinned and spurred the animal. The gelding leaped forward, drawing even with Dauntless.

“Care for a race, Commander?” Leliana asked. Her gelding drew ahead.

The gelding was faster, but Dauntless had more stamina. “To the far end of the valley?” he asked.

She laughed and drew ahead by a length -- she’d been holding back.

Cullen leaned forward and patted Dauntless’ neck. “Let’s show her, boy.”

 

They lost.

Leliana was walking the gelding in circles, cooling him down, by the time Cullen reined Dauntless in at the crest of the hill on the opposite side of the valley.

“Fortune favors you,” Cullen said.

“Fortune? I have the better horse,” she said.

“If the race were further, then we would have won.” He dismounted, letting Dauntless graze.

“If it were further, then we wouldn’t have raced.”

“You admit to stacking the deck in your favor?” he said.

“Always.” She petted the gelding. “And I keep major arcana up my sleeve whenever possible.”

He shook his head. “Ever the bard.”

“Yes.”  

Cullen strode to the end of the ridge. He could see for miles from here. Evelyn would come through the near pass when she returned. She was due to arrive any day to begin preparations for the final battle, but likely was stalled by the same inclement weather that plagued preparations.  

Leliana said nothing, but he could feel her eyes on him.

“Out with it, Lady Seneschal. You didn’t accompany me because you wanted to ride.”

“We are nearly at the end,” she said.

“And I thank the Maker.” Corypheus had much to answer for, and Cullen regretted he could only answer for it once.  

“Can you send her against Corypheus, if it comes to that?”

Cullen turned away. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“Evelyn,” she said. “The Inquisitor. The woman you love still. Can you send her to what could be her death?”

He flinched. “I will do as I must. For the good of all.”

She examined him closely. “Will you? You told Cassandra you could not kill her if she became an abomination. If you could not do that, could you do this?”

“Cassandra didn’t tell you that.”

“No, she didn’t. But it is my job to know things.”

“She is not a tool to be used or discarded,” he said stiffly.

She sighed. “She could die, and I don’t discount that.” Leliana looked off into the distance. “She and I have discussed this at length -- keeping our people safe. But she is the only one who can stand against him. Don’t you see that?”

Cullen closed his eyes against the pain. He had been cut, burned, shocked and frozen in the course of his duties as a templar, and none had been so painful as the thought of losing Evelyn in battle. “I know this. Why do you torment me with it?”

“It is not my intent to pain you, Cullen. You know that she wouldn’t hesitate, if she thought it necessary.”

“Yes.” It was true; she would not blink, especially if she thought it would save another.

“I need to know that you will not hesitate.”

“No, you need to know that I will sacrifice her if it will bring us victory.”

“That is another way of saying it.” Leliana paused. “A blunter way of saying it.”

“I am not a bard.”

“You would make a poor one.”

He glared at her, but she met his gaze steadily. “After all the crimes I have committed against mages, do you doubt my ability to sacrifice a single mage for the good of all?”

“I doubt your ability to sacrifice this particular mage.” Her expression softened. “I don’t see her as a tool to be used and discarded, whatever you may think. This is larger than any of us. You know what Corypheus has planned. She has thwarted him up until this point, but if the Inquisition fails … ” Leliana shook her head. “It would be disastrous. I need to know you will do your duty … and if you cannot or will not, I will act in the Inquisition’s best interests.”

He mounted his destrier. “I will do my duty.” The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. “I always do my duty. It is the one thing I can always be counted on to do -- whether it’s right or not.” He spurred Dauntless, turning him back toward the keep.

If only he could flee his past as easily.

##

"There you are!" Dorian paused, preening at the top of the stairs. "Still hiding up here, determined to be miserable?"

Evelyn pushed a stack of reports aside. "If I were hiding, what makes you think I would let you find me? Besides, I'm not miserable, I'm busy." She had gone straight to work as soon as she had arrived at Skyhold. It delayed the war table meeting … and seeing Cullen again. Perhaps if she stayed in her quarters with her paperwork, she wouldn’t have to see him before she left again.

Dorian reclined on the chaise by the stairs. "Busy and miserable are no way to go through life, cousin."

"I said busy, not miserable."

"But how could you be otherwise, when Josephine and Leliana are determined to bury you alive under an avalanche of paperwork? It's almost as if they're sorry you escaped Haven."

"I'm fine." Evelyn took a sip of tea, realized it was stone-cold and hid her grimace in her tea cup. "Just a little overwhelmed."

"How can you be 'a little' overwhelmed? It sounds suspiciously like being 'mostly' dead."

She sighed. "I am catching up, actually."

"Because you're working eighteen-hour days." Dorian crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "It is almost as if you're distracting yourself."

"Dorian ..." He tread on thin ice.

He ignored the warning note in her tone. "Tell me, are you able to sleep after working yourself to the bone?"

Evelyn looked down at her hands; they were splotched with ink. "No," she said quietly.

He sat up. "I know an excellent curse. He will have fingernails growing out of his nose."

"Don't you dare." She glared at him.

"Afraid it will spoil his looks?"

"Hardly, but if he wakes up one morning with extras, the list of those who could be responsible is short and I can't promise I'll be here to protect you."

He tented his fingers. "You may have a point. We will have to consider alternate means of revenge."

She arched an eyebrow. "Aren't such things beneath us?"

"Revenge is the sport of nobility. You can't stoop too low in the pursuit of it."

She sighed and slumped against the back of the chair. "It's sweet of you to try and cheer me up, Dorian, but not necessary."

"I am many things, but sweet isn't one of them."

That did make her smile. She could drop all pretense with Dorian, and he with her, so she knew that he had a kind and empathetic heart under his carefree, flippant exterior.

"You have succeeded in your objective," she said.

"A smile does look rather good on you," he said. "You look less tired."

She laughed. "Is that your way of telling me I look awful?"

"Dreadful. You need sleep. I have something --"

"No, Dorian," she said. "I've been having nightmares lately. Truly, it is why I've been sleeping badly."

"Ostwick or Therinfall?"

"Both." Her good humor was gone; it had been brief.

He scowled. "A nose full of fingernails is too good for him. I'll have to think of something else. Something worse."

Maker only knew what Dorian would do once he set his mind to it. Besides, looking was all she could do now, and she _didn't_ want his looks spoiled. She had to distract Dorian. "How is Bull?"

Dorian lifted an eyebrow. "You just spent three weeks in the Western Approach with him. I don't imagine much has changed since you arrived this morning."

She shrugged. "I thought since the two of you disappeared for several hours ..."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well ... actually ... I could use a second opinion."

"About you and Bull? You're adorable."

"No, he gave me something. No, never mind, it's silly." Dorian's expression indicated it was anything but silly.

She stood and came around the desk. "No, isn't not. Will you show me?"

He pulled a chain from under his tunic -- she was surprised he could fit anything under there as tight as it was -- and handed it over.

It was half a dragon's tooth, shaped, polished and cradled in a setting of silverite and obsidian in a geometric pattern reminiscent of Bull's tattoos.

"It's beautiful." Bull had asked her for the tooth, offering to pay far more than even a dragon's tooth was worth. It had been important to him that it was one from a dragon he helped kill. She was glad she gave it as a gift. Even if Bull's loyalty hadn’t earned it -- which it did -- the expression on Dorian's face was enough.

"He made it himself," Dorian said with quiet pride. "He has the other half. Do you think ... I'm not worried about myself, I always land on my feet, but ... I don't suppose you think it could work, do you? A Tevinter mage and a Qunari spy?"

"He's Tal-Vashoth now." She gave the tooth back.

He grimaced and pulled the chain over his head. "I know. Even if it meant we would ... if he would go back ... I wish he wasn't. It bothers him. A little," he hastened to add.

It bothered Bull deeply. "Me, too."

"Letting his Chargers die ... that would have been worse. He's responsible for them." Dorian paused. "They're his family. I think Krem approves of me, actually. I was surprised, given his background."

"His background?"

"I'm an Altus," he reminded her. "And he grew up one rung above slavery."

"Maybe he sees what I see: You're good for Bull. You make him happy and let him forget he's Tal-Vashoth, even just for a little while."

Dorian struggled to suppress a smile, but lost the battle. "Then you think it could work?"

"It already is."

He swooped down on her with hugs and kisses. "Tell me you'll take a nap and I won't slip lye in the commander's pomade."

Evelyn choked. "You'd see him bald?"

"He spends too much time fussing with his hair already. I'd give him a few tips, but he doesn't deserve them."

Evelyn hugged him. No matter what Dorian said, he and Cullen were unlikely friends and Dorian could no more harm a friend than he could wish blood magic away. "I will lie down as soon as you leave."

"Consider me gone already, then." He kissed the top of her head. "Don't worry, Evelyn. Everything will turn out alright in the end. We just might need to cause more mayhem to achieve it, but you excel at that."

He waited until she slipped off her boots and long coat before descending the stairs.

Evelyn laid down, as promised, but she doubted she would sleep.

She stared at the ceiling. If a Tevinter mage and a Qunari could work, then perhaps even a mage and a templar could.

She fell asleep after all.


	20. Evelyn Agonizes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone from both Evelyn's and Cullen's pasts arrives as Skyhold.

"Inquisitor!" Josephine was at her elbow, her ever-present clipboard close at hand. "I'm glad I found you."

"Is there something I can do for you?" Evelyn asked. Her back was tight and throbbing; it was scarring over, just as she feared. She just returned from Crestwood, and she wanted to sleep. Maybe she could catch a few hours before the nightmares woke her.

However, she appreciated the importance of Josephine's work. Public perception, especially among the influential, was a powerful tool. It didn't matter if Evelyn liked it or not. It was a fact of life.

"A group of mages has arrived, many of them from the Ostwick Circle, and they requested an audience. You have a state dinner tonight, then a war council meeting, and tomorrow morning we are reviewing the contracts with the merchant princes … " Josephine consulted her clipboard. "I was hoping you had some time ... now, actually."

Evelyn suppressed a grimace. While she had allies and some friends at the circle, she also had enemies. She hoped this group was primarily the former, not the latter. Either way, it behooved her to greet them. Small gestures went far.

"Of course, Josephine. If you don't think I'm too travel-worn."

Josephine ran a critical eye over her. "You look remarkably well put together, given the distance you've traveled. The blood is ... intimidating."

Evelyn was the despair of Skyhold's laundry. Varric couldn't believe the amount of blood she managed to be splattered with, as far away from the action as she cast.

She had stopped and bathed in an ice-cold stream that morning. She got into the habit because she didn’t want to return to Skyhold looking like she'd spent every mile on the road drug behind her horse. She was accustomed to it now and saw no reason to stop.

"You'll meet them in the great hall, Inquisitor," Josephine said.

So they were looking to impress or intimidate. Just the thought made Evelyn tired, but she would grin and bear it. She just wished she'd had a chance to dine first. She mentally girded herself, then followed Josephine into the great hall.

Evelyn settled into the throne she neither sought nor desired, especially now it was hers. Her blood-stained coat pooled on the floor beneath her, and she left her cowl up. It would hide the deep shadows beneath her eyes and lent her a mysterious, even sinister, air.  

As the mages filed in the double doors to the great hall, they had time to examine the red-and-gold Inquisition trappings. There were no references to the Marches, the Chantry or the Circle of Magi, despite the Inquisition's diverse background. They were united in one goal, and the hall was a reflection of that.

Evelyn shone like a beacon in her white-and-gold dragon-leather and -bone coat, framed by the throne's spiked rays and backlit by the wall of stained glass behind her. Josephine stood to her right and below the dais, while Leliana and Cullen stood to either side and behind her, bracketing the throne like a pair of bookends.

Or attack dogs.

Leliana managed to give the impression she was lounging even while standing straight, and woe to those who mistook her air of casual ennui for inattention.

Cullen stood at parade rest, his blank gaze directed somewhere in the vicinity of Lady Vivienne's loft. Evelyn and Cullen hadn't spoken outside council meetings in so long she half-believed their interlude was a foolish daydream.  

The throne -- the position of Inquisitor -- was the important thing. Evelyn wasn't the first or even second choice for that position, but one made of desperation, regardless of what Cassandra said. She should remember that, lest she overestimate her importance beyond her unique ability to close rifts. Solas likely would discover an alternate means to do so, given enough time.

The mark flared jade green as if its magic was summoned by her thoughts. She still understood it little after all this time. She dared few experiments. Evelyn crossed her legs and tented her fingers, the mark still spluttering and throwing strange shadows across her face.

The approaching mages murmured among themselves when the mark came to life. A little uncertainty wasn't a bad thing and might speed things along.

As the mages approached, she also had time to study them. There were three dozen of them, a fraction of either tower's numbers, and a few in the back bore the sun brand of the Tranquil on their foreheads, although they kept their eyes on the floor and she couldn't see their faces well. They were trained to do that. Tranquil weren't frightened or cautious. Tranquil were … passionless.

The mages' clothing was travel-stained, and some wore torn robes. A great many hems were unraveled. Their eyes were hollow and their expressions -- with the exception of the Tranquil -- were strained and wary. None of them carried their staffs; not a surprise. Cullen would never allow so many unknown mages armed into Skyhold.

A few faces were familiar, including one she hoped not to see: Romilla. The older woman hadn't liked Brenna, and, by extension, Evelyn. Romilla was a beauty, but always had a faintly dissatisfied expression. It suited her temperament.

"Inquisitor, this group petitions the Inquisition for succor," Josephine said. "They claim not to have engaged in the mage-templar war."

Evelyn said nothing. It would keep them off-balance.

"Who speaks for you?" Josephine asked.

Romilla stepped forward. Of course.

"Junior Enchanter Evelyn --" she began.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan, if you don't mind, Enchanter ..." Josephine trailed off, her point clear: No one knew who Romilla was outside her small group. Everyone knew Evelyn.

Romilla's mouth twisted as though she had bitten into a lemon. "Senior Enchanter Romilla of the Ostwick Circle." Hardly anyone bothered appending junior or senior to an enchanter's title. Point made: Romilla was a senior enchanter, and Evelyn a junior enchanter.

"Senior Enchanter." Josephine dipped in the most shallow of bows. No disrespect intended; it was only that Romilla was unimportant and not worth notice.

Evelyn sat silent through the exchange, although she almost could feel Leliana's attention focusing on the potential dissenter. Evelyn pitied Romilla. She wouldn't want to be on Leliana's bad side for all the gold in Thedas.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan," Romilla said, dislike coloring every syllable. "It is as your ambassador says. We throw ourselves on the mercy of your vaunted Inquisition --" she had switched to sarcastic without losing a beat "-- and request your protection." She paused. "We have nowhere else to go."

That likely was the truth. Evelyn doubted Romilla would turn up on her doorstep if she hadn't been turned away everywhere else.

Evelyn recrossed her legs, holding her silence for just another moment.

Romilla leaned forward.

"The Inquisition will shelter you," Evelyn said. "You will contribute to our efforts in return."

Another bitten lemon grimace. "Of course," Romilla said.

"You will report all you've seen and heard on your travels to our seneschal."

Romilla glanced at Leliana and had the sense to look wary. "Yes."

"Report to Ser Morris. He will assign you lodging. Sister Leliana will debrief you at her earliest convenience, and Commander Cullen will assign you duties."

Romilla turned toward Ser Rutherford, and the mages behind her glanced at one another, murmuring in hushed tones. Evelyn knew what they thought -- the same things she thought on meeting the Inquisition's commander. Perhaps they didn't doubt his abilities, given his victory at Adamant, but they feared him.

"I bid you good afternoon," Evelyn said.

They were dismissed and several bowed or curtsied, their continued wariness leavened with relief.

Romilla cleared her throat, because of course she did.

Evelyn kept her face blank, even in the shadows of the cowl. It was good practice. An eyeroll couldn't be more appropriate, however. She tilted her head in silent acknowledgment. Better to get this out in the open now, instead of letting it fester. Romilla's complaints would do no more good than Evelyn's had, but allowing Romilla to vent would make Evelyn seem less of a tyrant.

“Some of us have concerns,” Romilla said.

Evelyn didn’t miss Romilla’s gaze settling on Ser Cullen, and Romilla didn’t look altogether displeased with what she saw. Evelyn was unhappy that she immediately felt protective. The damned templar could protect himself well enough, and he didn’t spend time fretting over her protection.

She sat in silence, waiting for the other woman to speak.

Romilla stepped forward, robes swaying around her lush form. Romilla never wanted for company -- mage or templar -- at the Circle. “Some are from the Gallows.”

Evelyn expected this, so did not flinch nor glance at Ser Cullen, although she wanted to see his reaction badly. She waited.

“They ask for reassurances of their safety, given … certain circumstances.” Romilla licked her lips and smiled.

Evelyn wanted to shift position; the throne wasn’t comfortable. She didn’t move.

“No one’s safety can be assured, given the threat we face in Corypheus,” Evelyn said. “If there are those among you who feel unsafe or do not wish to work against him and his Venatori, then they are free to leave without consequence. You are not prisoners.”

Romilla turned and gestured for someone to join her.

Evelyn went still as the woman walked forward to join Romilla. She was lithe, tall and graceful. Her burnished red hair was cropped short, baring the sunburst brand on her forehead. She had a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks, and her deep blue eyes were serene and unconcerned.

Those eyes once were lit with mischief and a sense of fun.

Evelyn felt dizzy as the blood drained from her face and was glad for the concealment her cowl offered.

“You remember Marjorie,” Romilla said. “She was trained at Ostwick, just as you and I were, Inquisitor. She even arrived at the Circle at the same time as you did.”

Evelyn and Marjorie once were inseparable -- until Marjorie was transferred to the Gallows as punishment following Evelyn’s misadventures with Edwyn. Brenna’s influence wasn’t enough to protect them both, and she chose her favorite. Evelyn and Marjorie wrote one another, but fell out of contact over the past decade.

“Marjorie, I hope you are well.” Evelyn’s voice was calm, but a storm raged within her.

“I am satisfactory, Inquisitor.”

Romilla stroked Marjorie’s shoulder. “Marjorie was made Tranquil at the Gallows. Some of the abuses there have disturbed us. You can see our concerns, can’t you?”

Evelyn shared them at one point. Then she took the man responsible as her lover. She sat back, hands clasped loosely in her lap. “The Inquisition has extended protection to many Tranquil. They are treated well here, and you are free to ask them about their treatment, if it will allay your concerns.” Tranquil didn’t lie.

Romilla cocked her head; she looked like a hawk that spotted prey. “Marjorie, who ordered you to be made Tranquil?”

Evelyn knew, even before Marjorie looked directly at Cullen.

“Knight-Captain Cullen ordered it,” Marjorie said, her voice placid.

The only good thing about Evelyn’s prediction being proved true was she braced herself so she didn’t flinch. Romilla had crossed the Waking Sea for this moment.

“Those among you who don’t wish to stay may leave unharmed. Otherwise, report to Ser Morris. If that is all today?” she asked, turning her attention to Josephine.

“I believe so, Inquisitor,” Josephine said.

Evelyn stood and headed for the war room, back straight and head high. She would kill Ser Cullen -- in private. Her advisors fell into step behind her. Evelyn wanted nothing so badly as she wanted to retreat to her rooms and lick her wounds in private. She could not.

She proceeded through Josephine’s office without a word. She continued to the war room, her advisors trailing behind her. She turned to Leliana and Josephine before the heavy doors could shut. “If I may speak with Ser Rutherford privately?”

The pair exchanged a glance laden with meaning, but retreated to Josephine’s office without protest. At least they were the only ones within earshot of what would be said next.

Ser Cullen shut the door, then turned to face her.

She could say nothing for a long moment. She shook and tears pricked her eyes. “Marjorie was my friend,” she said in a low voice. “She was sent to Kirkwall after she was caught passing my letters to Edwyn.” She couldn’t claim as much fault as Ser Cullen, but she deserved some. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. “Why?”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember ordering someone to be divested of their emotions?” Her voice didn’t crack with strain, but it was a close thing.

“There were so many … ”

“So many lives ruined that it was difficult to keep up with them all?” she asked.

“It wasn’t like that.” He drifted around the war table toward his accustomed spot.

Evelyn slammed her hand down on the table, making the pieces jump. “Then tell me what it was like, Cullen! A Circle where so many were made Tranquil you don’t even remember them all!” She was dangerously close to tears.

“I signed _all_ the orders at the end, because Meredith’s paranoia was so great she wouldn’t see anyone.” There was a thread of anger in his voice.

“Did you never once think about what you were signing off on?”

“I did as I was ordered!”

“That isn’t an excuse!” She clenched her fists so tightly that blood seeped between her fingers.

He turned away. “I know.” He bowed his head. “I know.”

She circled around the table. He was so confusing; she didn’t know if she wanted to strike him or comfort him. She needed to get away from him. She stopped short.

“You should have done _something_ ,” Evelyn said.

“What could I have done? She was my knight-commander.”

“That didn’t stop you or Hawke from overthrowing her in a coup!”

“And if I tried any earlier or without Hawke’s help, it wouldn’t have been successful,” he said. “I would have been cut down and named a blood thrall after the fact. And the little influence I exercised over her would have been lost. I did what I could and protected those I could. The Seekers investigated the Gallows and found her methods to be harsh, but warranted. Who could I go to? Who would listen?”

Evelyn looked away. She couldn’t deny it sounded like something Ser Stannard would have done. “Then you should have left the Order,” she told the far corner of the room.

“I am a lyrium addict,” he spat. “I have seen templars who leave the Order: wretched creatures who think of nothing but their addiction. _And nothing changes_.”

They looked at one another in silence. She wanted him to retroactively renounce the Order, because it would make her feel less guilty about her attraction, but if he left, he wouldn’t be here now -- and there would be nothing to feel guilty over.

“I know it doesn’t justify anything, but I fought so hard not to question,” he said. “I gave my life to the Order. If it was wrong about mages, if I spent my life in service to an unjust cause … what was it all for? If we weren’t protectors -- if we weren’t what I thought the Order was -- what were we? What was I?”

She had no answers for him.

He showed her his vulnerability, but, in her own grief, all she could say was, “she was my _friend_.”

Not only were the templars more physically imposing than mages, armored and armed, but they had all the power and authority. You could fight back, but you could never win. You would only end up bloody for your troubles. She couldn’t help but think about how confused and frightened Marjorie must have felt.

His shoulders slumped. “I am sorry.”

The worst of it was she believed him. She believed him … and she didn’t care. She hated him. She hated him for what was done to Marjorie and all the cruelty he inflicted or ignored.

Evelyn stalked out of the war room, only sorry the doors were too large and heavy to properly slam.


	21. Cullen's Meditative & Evelyn's Melancholy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is going to war, and Cullen and Evelyn still don't have it together, but they excel at navel gazing.

Evelyn went to the templar tower in search of Ser Barris. It wasn't something she ordinarily did, because being surrounded by templars made the space between her shoulder blades itch, but she had a question and she hadn't spoken to Ser Rutherford since the war room.

The templars stifled their reactions to a mage at large, then awkwardly clapped their fists to their breasts in salute as they remembered the mage was in charge. It was difficult for her as well. She kept her gaze off the floor and stood with shoulders straight. She could speak if she pleased and didn't have to wait for permission. It was hard to forget a lifetime worth of training, for her and for them.

Those templars who couldn't make the adjustment and accept a mage as their leader were stationed far from Skyhold. Despite this, her presence made many of Skyhold's templars uncomfortable as their training warred with the new reality. Those who had been at Therinfall had an easier time accepting her.

And she had unwittingly sacrificed the rebel mages for this. It was bitter and the lost mages haunted her. If she had only known the consequences of her choice ...

Ser Barris approached, and she was ashamed of her musings. He saluted and was comfortable doing it. "Inquisitor, how may I serve you?"

"Would you take a turn around the ramparts with me?" she asked. "I would like to speak to you in private."

"Of course." He inclined his head in a subtle bow and offered her his arm.

They walked in silence until the reached a part of the ramparts where they could see into the valley -- and a small retinue of wagons, guarded by templars and crossing the valley toward a wooded area beyond Skyhold. They passed through the encampment and turned left before reaching the castle drawbridge.

"I am curious about their destination. I wasn't informed a troop movement was planned." She wasn't surprised -- they were to leave for the Emerald Graves in a few day's time, and a large army moved agonizingly slow.

Ser Barris braced his hands on the ramparts, staring down at the caravan below, a frown creasing his forehead. "I had thought ..." He shook his head. "You told Commander Cullen about the fall of Greenfell, Inquisitor?"

Ice slid through her veins as she considered a terrible possibility. Numb, she nodded.

Barris gestured to the pitiful wagon train. "These are all that is left of Greenfell. They would have died without the commander's and your intervention."

Maybe that would have been better. The Inquisition would not be babysitting deranged templars. "Are they bivouacking in the woods?" She didn't want them in Skyhold, but the thought of them nearby, but just out of sight ... she clenched her fists and suppressed a shudder.

Barris shook his head. "Accommodations have been arranged." He paused, then, his voice carefully bland, said, "Cullen thought you would be better pleased if they were not too near the castle."

Or he was trying to hide it from her, as he did so much else. She would have to be blind to miss the wagons, the last of which was just now being swallowed by the wood.

Some of those who tormented her in the Circle might now be under the Inquisition's protection. She took a deep breath and crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands. Evelyn much preferred deferential templars now that she considered it.

"I would like to inspect their accommodations," she said.

Barris nodded as if he expected this all along, only a slight widening of his eyes betraying his surprise. "Of course. Shall I accompany you?"

"Yes," Evelyn said. "Now, please."

She needed to know if any of her former jailers were now her charges. Evelyn prayed she had it within herself to be merciful, but given her complicated feelings about templars and one in particular ... she wasn't sure.

 

After a brief stop in the stables, they rode into the woods together. Barris was alert and watchful, and Evelyn was tense and wary. Barris glanced over several times, his expression worried. It wasn’t unjustified; Evelyn might appear placid, but she was fiercely angry.

The trees thinned, then a clearing opened up. Barris drew his horse to a halt, dismounted, then turned to help Evelyn down from her own horse.

Evelyn was gratified that high palisades surrounded the templar encampment. Let them be the ones trapped behind walls for once. The rectangular wall encompassed a space the size of both of Skyhold's baileys put together, and several peaked roofs were visible over the top of the wall. This was no easy or quick undertaking. She would kill that damned templar for keeping this from her. This wasn't an encampment, it was a compound.

"You have put much work into this." She managed to keep her tone neutral.

"It is based on Greenfell," Barris said. "Cullen felt the familiarity might help." He cleared his throat. "He drew up the plans himself."

Probably from memory; she banished burgeoning pity. Cullen certainly hadn't asked for it, and she didn't know that he deserved it.

Barris pushed open the traverse door in the gate, and Evelyn braced herself. Templars said forgetting the horrors were a mercy, but forgetting their own sins wasn't absolution.

Barris held the door and she stepped into New Greenfell.

The compound was militarily neat, if small. She was glad it was small; she didn't want these templars here, but if they were, it was better that were only a few. A small group of people stood in front of a long, low building, while a handful of templars carried boxes from the wagons into the building -- a dormitory? -- and a trio of clerics watched over the small group.

Cullen stood watch over the entire assembly, and he looked up as the door shut behind her and Barris. An emotion flashed across his face, too quickly to define, before he turned away to speak to .... Romilla.

Evelyn flexed her hands and silently counted to ten. Romilla had no reason to be here, except to ingratiate herself with Cullen. She stood too close to him, and if he made note, he made no protest. Romilla caught Evelyn's eye and smiled like a cat in a creamery.

Evelyn raised her eyebrows and shrugged, turning away to examine the rough hewn wooden statue of Andraste in the green space at the center of the compound.

No doubt Romilla heard the gossip about Evelyn and Cullen and was up to her old tricks. And Maker knew Cullen was appealing enough on his own. When he was only a bogeyman, it was easy to imagine his appearance was as ugly as his reputation. In person, it was clear he was like blood magic: a temptation that shouldn't be indulged.

The joke was on Romilla. It didn't matter if she was successful in seducing Cullen; that was nothing compared to the hurts he already inflicted.

Evelyn turned her attention to the small group who caused her concern. They were strong and hale in body, but their eyes ... their expressions ranged from confusion and fear to bewilderment and emptiness. Some muttered and moaned, others drooled.

One clamped her hands over her ears and spun in circles, chanting "no, no, no." Another rocked back and forth, reciting the Chant of Light in a monotone. A third made motions as if he unraveled a string in mid-air.

They huddled together, shoulders hunched. They had the bodies of warriors, old and haunted eyes and the posture of frightened children.

As she watched, a woman began sobbing, and Cullen spoke to her, his words indistinct, his tone soothing. It was a low, kind murmur that was familiar. It was the same tone with which he comforted her when she fled sleep and the accompanying nightmares. He calmed her fears while shielding her from his own demons.

If she closed her eyes, she would be back there, lying in his arms, his large, warm body curled around hers, his voice murmuring in her ear. And she wanted to be there in that moment so badly that it hurt. After holding herself so determinedly apart for so long, it came as a surprise that she craved touch so much. It didn't need to be sexual. Lying with her head pillowed on his chest, listening to the steady beat of Cullen's heart and feeling his breath feathering her hair, was the happiest and most content she ever had been.

Evelyn's chest ached, hot tears stung her eyes and she struggled to maintain her composure. Ser Barris was somber as he watched Cullen and the lost templars.

"Ser, I have no wish to make my presence known and further disrupt the ... patients ' resettlement." She kept her voice low. "I am satisfied with what I have seen."

Barris nodded and they slipped away quietly -- although Evelyn wasn't able to escape without a parting, triumphant smirk from Romilla. Evelyn had changed her mind. If Cullen took up with Romilla, she would have to think of a suitable, yet subtle, revenge on both of them. Dorian would help.

Evelyn and Barris rode back, each silent and preoccupied with their own thoughts.

She held her peace until she could bear the silence, as leaden and pregnant as the storm clouds above, no longer. "Is that the fate of all templars?"

Ser Barris' eyes were sad and thoughtful. "Yes."

"You?"

"Yes."

"Rylen?"

"Yes."

"Commander Rutherford?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He hesitated so long, she thought he would not answer.

"Perhaps," he said. He glanced at her, and something, maybe hope, in her expression made him hasten to add, "I would not gamble on it. He has stopped taking it, but lyrium is powerful and he was a templar for a long time. I am sorry to tell you so."

If she hated Cullen, why did Barris' words cause her so much pain?

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't understand your meaning."

"Why do you do it, if you know the cost?"

"Because someone must." His voice was sure now, confident. "Because someone must stand and do what is right."

How sure he was that templars were in the right, even now.

"At that cost?"

"At any cost. Someone must stand between the common folk and mages, whether to protect one or the other in their turn. When we have your example, how can we do any less, Inquisitor?"

Evelyn closed her eyes and prayed she could be what they needed. She had her doubts.

She wondered if Cullen would lose himself to the lyrium, and, if he did, how many years he had left. Evelyn wondered why she was so determined that they spend those years apart when he made her happier than anyone else ever had, even for a short time.

 ##

Cullen leaned against the smithy wall, glad to be able to fade into the background for once. It was easy with the show the Inquisitor gave.

She crooked a finger at the line of recruits, then moved her staff across her body, tracing a line across the sand of the sparring ring. Hungry flames leapt up, crackling.

The Inquisition fought Venatori, and there were many mages among them.

_Flank her on both sides …_

Cullen was pleased they remembered their training and peeled off to either side.

Evelyn pivoted to her left and twirled her staff. Wind howled and warmth was leeched from the air, but she held out a palm and twisted her fingers, so that a load of snow formed above their heads and dumped over them and down the back of their necks, instead of freezing them solid.

Those coming from the right broke into a run, charging her from behind.

She whirled around, twirling her staff over her head, bringing it down with a bang. That same palm-out gesture, and weak bolts of electricity jolted them, enough to set them on their heels, but little else. One fellow's hair stood on end, making him look like a porcupine.

Cullen was so absorbed, he barely heard Cassandra approach behind him. She stood beside him, arms crossed, watching intently.

"What did we do wrong, Inquisitor?" Ser Porcupine asked.

"Time your rushes better," she said. "A mage can do only one thing at a time, and if you can rush the casting, all the better. If wouldn't hurt to have archers. A well-timed arrow can disrupt a casting, and it is far more difficult to defend three fronts, instead of two."

"Like what you see?" Cassandra asked.

"She's a force of nature," Cullen said.

"Not the Inquisitor." Cassandra shifted her stance. "I know what you think of _her_. I meant our recruits."

Cullen coughed to cover his embarrassment. "I am pleased. You?"

"They could use some more instruction in handling themselves against mages. You should give them a demonstration."

"I don't think that is a very good idea --" Evelyn would no doubt be tempted to take his head off.

"Do not be ridiculous." Cassandra took his elbow and propelled him halfway into the ring before he knew what was happening.

"Seeker, I --"

"The Commander will show you how it is done," she announced. Cassandra gave him a shove toward the Inquisitor.

Cullen gritted his teeth and gave Evelyn a shallow bow, arms crossed over his chest. Cassandra wouldn't know subtle if it was introduced as a character in one of Varric's novels. While he appreciated the sentiment, much like these recruits, Cassandra's execution needed work.

"Inquisitor." His longing was laid bare in that one word. He never had her ability to appear blasé.

"Commander." Disinterest colored every syllable, more cutting than anger, because even that had passion behind it.

"Do you care to spar?" he asked.

"Let's put on a show for our audience." And with that, she blasted him with a howling wind.

They drove each other back and forth across the sand, countering one another, pressing advantages and feinting attacks.

Cullen found himself hesitating to strike when the opportunity presented itself. He didn't redirect her blasts back at her with his shield, and he restrained his blows, the flat of his blade sliding and ringing along her silverite staff, but not forcing her back. He could do it, he was stronger ... but he didn’t want to hurt her.

Others might have missed it, but Cullen saw her resulting fury in the angry, thin line of her mouth and the tightness around her eyes. She battered him with her magic, and one moment, frost rimed his armor and cramped his muscles and, the next, flame singed him and sweat stung his eyes and made his palms slick and grip on his sword unsure. It wasn't enough to harm him. She didn't want his pain, she wanted to provoke him.

But to what end? She knew he would never harm her, regardless of the provocation, no matter the pain he endured. Didn't she?

She brought her staff around, swinging it as if it were a sword. He blocked it with his own sword, but didn’t thrust her back and knock her off balance. She stepped into him, her staff grinding along his blade.

“Fight, damn you!” she snarled.

“I cannot.”

"Liar! You are a mage-hunter."

"Not anymore. And not you, ever." He knew it was a weakness, but love brought out so many weaknesses in him. It was a fair trade.

"Damn you, Cullen." Her chest heaved with exertion and fury.

"I cannot harm you."

"Not physically!"

There were many other ways to come to harm and he knew it well. "I am sorry."

She thrust forward with her staff to little effect. “I don’t want your apologies.” She chucked a fireball at his head.

Cullen ducked. “What do you want? If it is in my power to give, it is yours.”

Evelyn didn’t deal well with being uncertain. It made her testy and irritable, even irrational. Something troubled her. Cullen couldn’t imagine what had caused her unease.

“I don’t know!” She kicked him. The _Herald of Andraste_ punted him right in the chest, putting all her weight and force behind it. Cullen was forced back a step even while Evelyn staggered back herself, dropping her staff, arms pinwheeling from the force of the kick.

Cullen dropped his sword and shield, stepped forward and caught her around the waist before she could fall. She looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise, and it took every bit of discipline he had not to kiss her.

He realized he held her in his arms, and his ears and neck heated with a blush. Maker’s breath, he had demonstrated his foolishness for the entire castle. If there was any doubt he was still enthralled with her, it had been thoroughly dashed.

She tapped his chin with a forefinger that trailed electrical sparks. “Zap, you’re dead,” she said. Then she raised her voice for the crowd, “I don't know if this would work again. I caught the Commander by surprise.”

Their audience cheered, and he released her. “This is how _not_ to fight a mage,” he told the recruits.

“Well, unless you want to be electrocuted,” Evelyn said.

Cullen rubbed his chest. “That is going to leave a bruise.”   

She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve endured worse in practice, Commander?”

“But never while being so handily defeated in front of my troops.”

“A little humbling never hurt anyone, Commander.”

Was she teasing him? Or did his longing make him see things that weren’t there? He rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“We march in the morning?”

“Yes.” Did her eyes linger on him? Was he driving himself crazy?

“I will see you when we leave.” She swept away, Dorian trailing in her wake.

Cullen watched until she was out of sight, and Cassandra came to stand beside him.

“That was terrible,” she said. “Are you so completely besotted that everything you know about combat has turned to mush? Or do you think our demon- and dragon-slaying Inquisitor is such a fragile flower she can’t take a few taps in the practice ring?”

“I certainly hope not,” he said. “And I know she can take care of herself. I just … had an off day.”

She made a disgusted noise.

“I will see you in the morning?” he asked.

“Of course. Someone has to have their wits about them.” She turned on her heel and strode off.

Cullen didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. Maybe if he had his wits about him, he would know. He went to see if he could find them.

 ##

Evelyn stopped outside the door. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. She touched the rough-hewn wooden slabs, first with her fingertips, then pressing her palm against the door. She hesitated. She was nervous. She had waited too long.

What she had done could not be forgiven.

She was a coward. Evelyn shook her head and knocked. Someone, their voice flat and emotionless, called for her to enter.

Evelyn took a deep breath and walked into the Tranquils' laboratory.

Several Tranquil turned to see who entered, then returned to their tasks without expressing curiosity or surprise. They enchanted items or poured over research, much as they did in their Circles. Evelyn was uneasy at the thought that the Inquisition took advantage of them in much the same way the Chantry had. She could tell herself they had nothing outside their work, and it wouldn’t be a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

At least the Inquisition kept them safe and made no others Tranquil. There had been no possessions or abominations on their watch. It was as she suspected: If mages felt safe, they were much less prone to such things.

A tall mage hurried toward Evelyn. "Oh, Inquisitor, we didn't expect you!" She paused. "We're glad to see you, of course."

Evelyn smiled. "I wanted to be sure all was well. We leave in the morning, and I will not be back for some time."

The woman nodded. "We have been working on several concerns, but perhaps you would like to hear about our research on rifts?"

"Please."

The mage needed no prompting to launch into a long-winded lecture on the Tranquils' research.

As she spoke, half of Evelyn's attention was on the Tranquil themselves. They looked healthy and well cared for; their appearance was clean and neat. They didn't appear unhappy, but Tranquil were incapable of unhappiness. What was left when you were stripped of all emotion?

They didn't have satisfaction in discovery or contentment in a job well done. Some said Tranquility was preferable to death, but Tranquil did not protect themselves from harm and accepted abuse without reaction. They did whatever they were told, no matter how menial or horrible. They didn't only lose their power and emotions, they lost all motivation as well.

It took her only a moment to find Marjorie. Her hair was longer than when she had arrived at Skyhold, bangs nearly hiding her brand. Evelyn heard the Kirkwall Circle cropped Tranquils' hair short to expose their brands; a warning to unaltered mages. Evelyn suspected Romilla continued the practice, or Marjorie's hair would be much longer.

Mages were far from blameless when it came to abusing Tranquil. Cruelty wasn’t exclusive to templars, and the Chantry made Tranquil perfect victims: unprotesting and obedient. Evelyn didn't know which disgusted her more, the predators who took advantage of their helplessness or those who lashed out at the inoffensive Tranquil in fear and revulsion.

Evelyn wished she had an opportunity to speak at length with Hawke about Kirkwall ... and Cullen's behavior there. That opportunity was long gone and Samson refused to answer any questions. Evelyn was not willing to resort to torture, although some had recommended it.

Dagna was eager to ... run tests, but Evelyn could not allow it. Dagna would have liked to do the same to Edwyn if he were taken alive. He had been kind, once ... as had Raleigh Samson. Evelyn did not forget the mage underground.   

She had made so many poor choices, yet she was given command of armies. Everyone else paid the price for her mistakes.

The mage who oversaw the Tranquils' work wrapped up her spiel, clearly having found more enjoyment in it than her charges did.

Evelyn smiled. "Please keep up the excellent work. You are making an important contribution to the Inquisition."

The woman puffed up like a peacock. "Of course, Inquisitor."

"I would like to speak to the Tranquil."

The mage overseer nodded and retreated to her own station.

Evelyn walked among the Tranquil, speaking quietly to them, thanking them for their work and asking if they were treated well. She walked among those who were dead, but didn't yet know it.

Finally, she came to Marjorie.

"Marjorie, how are you?"

"As well as can be expected." Marjorie put down her mortar and pestle.

"Are you being treated well?"

"Yes."

"If I might ask you something ...?" Evelyn said.

"Yes, Inquisitor."

"Why were you made Tranquil?" There was no reason to be diplomatic with the Tranquil, because they didn't take offense. No reason, except her own discomfort at her bluntness.

"I performed blood magic." Marjorie picked the pestle up and resumed grinding a blood lotus. She had been a talented alchemist and botanist, and she retained her knowledge, benefiting the Gallows and now the Inquisition. It made Evelyn queasy.  

“Did you do it? Or were you only suspected?" Evelyn's entire body was braced for the answer. She knew it already, though -- the Tranquil did not obfuscate. They had no fear or shame.

"I did." Marjorie dumped the ground blood lotus into a bowl, then began adding other herbs. "Myself and several others. I believed it necessary at the time, although I don't remember why."

Because she didn't understand emotions any more. Fear and desperation was as foreign to her as magic and dreams now.

"I am sorry." Evelyn had performed blood magic she believed to be necessary, and the same man who signed the order to make Marjorie Tranquil swore he was unable to harm Evelyn. Was it because Cullen loved her or had he changed?

"I live. I am useful. I am content." Marjorie added a lyrium potion slowly into the mixture, stirring it.

"I am pleased to hear it." Evelyn's voice was strangled, but the Tranquil had difficulty reading emotional cues, so Marjorie only nodded. "What was this blood magic you performed?" She really shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help herself. It wouldn't bother Marjorie, but it would bother Evelyn. Maybe it was penance for Marjorie going to the Gallows. Maybe it was morbid curiosity.

"We tried to assassinate Knight-Commander Meredith. We believed her death would improve the mages' condition."

It would, but they had to know there would be consequences, even if they were successful. Those who feared mages or didn't know the horrors of the Gallows would believe the Chantry justified in executing mages who killed a knight-commander. Of course, that meant they would lose Marjorie' talents, so she endured a fate worse than death ... and didn't even know it.

"Let me know if you need anything," Evelyn said.

"Yes." Marjorie turned back to her herbs, ignoring her.

Evelyn turned away, too. Her friend was gone, and there was a stranger where she had once been.

Near the back of the laboratory, a crossbow was mounted on a waist-high railing that encircled an elevated platform. An ordinary soldier -- not Tranquil, not a mage -- was stationed on the platform. He wore an Inquisition uniform, and his left sleeve was empty, the cuff pinned to his right shoulder to keep it out of the way. He nodded politely, and she returned the gesture. She wondered if he lost the arm in service to the Inquisition -- in her service.

“Are you watching the Tranquil?” she asked him.

“Watching _over_ them,” he replied. “I’d have a difficult time in the field -- ” He shrugged, making the empty sleeve dance. “ -- but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes or my aim. The commander knew I wasn’t ready to give up being a soldier and these folk needed someone to watch over them, make sure no one took advantage of them. It worked out for both sides.”

“How … how did you lose your arm?” It was her day for blunt, rude questions.

“Adamant,” he said. “They don’t kid around, Grey Wardens.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “Excuse me, Inquisitor, but there’s nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t chop my arm off. You shouldn’t worry about the small things, although I hear that you try. You’ve got bigger things to handle. That Corypheus, that’s more than big enough for you to worry about. You see about that, and we’ll handle everything else. We’ve got your back, Inquisitor.”

She was touched. “Thank you … I … I don’t know what to say.”

He shuffled his feet. “I don’t mean to upset you, ma’am. It's just, you risk yourselves time and again. You never know when it might all go sideways, so you’ve got to get everything you can out of life. You never know what will happen next or when it will be all over. I thought a lot about that when I lost my arm. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Evelyn said. “You’re exactly right.”

 ##

Cullen was discussing last minute details with Barris, Rylen and Cassandra in his field tent, hunched over a map in the cramped quarters, when he heard Evelyn's voice. He looked up as she entered the tent, clad in her long armored coat, her hair braided and wrapped around the crown of her head.

Cullen didn't speak. He had thought to seek her out later and tell her ... he didn't know what he would have told her. He didn't think that far ahead. He only knew that she might die, and if she went to her death when there was still no peace between them ...

Her death would kill him, but if she died not knowing how he truly felt, he would die a broken man. He accepted the prospect of his own death with little concern, but the idea of Evelyn's death terrified him.

“Inquisitor.” His heart hammered. Maker, she was beautiful. Formal pretenses forced him to stay where he was, although he longed to go to her and take her into his arms. Neither were his prerogative any longer, and it pained him.

"I wish to speak to the commander privately," she said.

"I await your command." Perhaps she came to repair their relationship on the eve of battle. He didn't hope it would be as it was, but peace between them ... that had to be possible.

As the others filed out, he came around the table, halting an arm's length away.

"I am told that you plan to take the field with the troops," she said.

"Yes."

"I forbid it." Her voice was flat.

All the air in his lungs was expelled as he absorbed this sucker punch, and he struggled to take another breath. "Are you relieving me of my command?" She could not mean to do that at such a critical juncture.

"Now? I am not so foolish." She turned away. "I am not ... I do not ... The Inquisition needs you. I forbid you to put yourself in danger." She picked up a marker from the table and turned it over. "You will be more effective directing the battle from here."

He could breathe again. "Rylen and Barris will be here."

"And one more general is too many?"

"It is a matter of morale."

"It is a matter of stupidity!" She slammed the marker down on the table. "You will not do this. I ... I command you to stay here." Her voice rose.

"I am the commander of the Inquisition forces," he said. "And such overt interference has never been your way."

"You aren't listening!" She prowled back and forth like an angry tiger. "It's dangerous. There's no need for you to put yourself at risk. This is reckless, possibly even suicidal."

"You will be at much greater risk," he said mildly. He stood at parade rest, watching her stride from one end of the tent and back again, her coat slapping her legs and her hands fisted.

"That isn't the point!"

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor, but I fail to see your point."

"You will not put yourself in danger to appease some perverse need for atonement."

"My need for atonement isn't perverse," he said.

"You're infuriating!" She turned and fixed him with a glare that should have pinned him to the tent wall.

"Your Worship -- "

"Cullen, don't call me that. You and I both know I am no herald."

In two strides, he crossed the distance between them and took her hands -- and she let him. "I know that you have saved many and done much. That is enough for me." He wanted to tell her he didn't care about the blood magic, not anymore. He believed her when she said it was an isolated incident born of desperation. But it might only anger her. She didn't need that, not now, so he let it go unsaid. Better he regret not saying it than hurt her.

"Cullen, stay here and be safe." Her pain and fear cut him like blades. Her fingers tightened around his.

"I can't do that, not when I might be make a difference ... not when I know you will be on the field."

She closed her eyes and swayed. "Cullen." Her voice was raw.

"Don't ask me to stay behind again while others serve, Evelyn." He wanted to hold her again, and only the resolve won in fighting his addiction allowed him to resist. It was a near thing. Her hold was as strong as the drug and could -- had -- led him to do things unworthy of him. It wasn't her fault; he was an imperfect vessel. "At the temple of Sacred Ashes, I swore I wouldn't allow myself to be left behind again. As long as there was breath in my body, I would serve you."

"Then don't you dare die. Not when there is so much between us to be discussed and not enough time."

He saluted. "Your wish is my command."


	22. Cullen: Circle-Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Evelyn probably should have had that chat earlier ...

_Don’t stop! The Inquisition will not yield!_

Evelyn stepped into the tent, letting the canvas fall shut behind her. It was dim and cool; it would be pleasant but for the shallow, rasping breathing. It was the sound of a man clinging to life.

A mage healer bent over Cullen, muttering under his breath, a soft blue glow wrapping his hands. Skyhold’s surgeon, who had accompanied their forces to the Arbor Wilds, stood off to the side, washing blood from her hands. The air reeked of blood and magic. No one spoke.

Evelyn took this all in, then crossed to stand beside the healer, watching intently as he worked. She never had been good at healing. She wished otherwise and now more than ever.

Cullen’s armor was discarded in the corner, a shockingly large crack and dent rendering the breastplate useless.  

His skin was colorless, silent testimony to the amount of blood he lost. His face was slack and his lips parted, cracked and bleeding. There were deep shadows -- a dark purple that looked bruised -- beneath his eyes. A terrible whistling came from deep within his chest. His skin was clammy and his hair damp with sweat.

The mage beside her cast with a grunt of effort. A blue glow settled over Cullen’s chest.

Evelyn didn’t want to look at his wounds, but she forced herself to do so. The surgeon had done her work well -- neat black stitches marched across the pale skin visible above and beneath the bloodied bandages hugging his ribs.

The light sank into his chest, and Cullen gasped, arching his back. He didn’t draw breath for a long moment, and Evelyn’s nails bit cruelly into her palms as she held her own.

Finally, he drew a pained, rattling breath, and she relaxed.

“An elegant casting,” she said to the healer. Her nails still dug into her palms as she fought for mastery of her expression and tone.

“Thank you, Your Worship,” he said, his dark eyes troubled. “There is a great deal of damage. He will have to be monitored closely.”

“He will be,” she promised. It was easily given.

The healer nodded. “I have done what I can. It is in the Maker’s hands now.”

The Maker hadn’t been particularly kind to Cullen.

“If you will excuse me, there are others I must see to,” the healer said.

“Thank you,” Evelyn said.

He dipped his head in a shallow bow and slid out of the tent.

Evelyn turned to the surgeon. “And what is your assessment?”

“Several broken ribs, a collapsed lung and carved up like a holiday nug.” The surgeon dried her hands with brisk, efficient movements. “I sewed him back together, set the ribs, and the lung -- well, I tried re-inflating it, but it wasn’t very successful. Maybe some of the woo-woo --” she motioned in the direction the healer had disappeared in “-- will help that and the other damage. If not …” She shook her head, letting it hang in the air. “I’m sorry, Your Worship, I wish I had better news.”

“I’m sure you did all you can,” Evelyn said.

The surgeon nodded and ducked out.

Cullen continued his struggle for breath, and Evelyn drifted closer. She wet a clean cloth and wiped the sweat, blood and grime from his face, running a corner carefully over his mouth. She had kissed his mouth a thousand times, but never touched it with as much tenderness as she did now.

Cullen’s hair was in curly disarray; he would hate that. She smoothed it down and thought distractedly that she needed to find some pomade at the first opportunity.

“Inquisitor.” Cassandra came into the tent, followed by Leliana and a pair of Chantry sisters.

Evelyn stepped back, consciously pulling the mantle of the Inquisitor around herself. Let it be a shield for her battered heart. “Seeker.”

“If you would accompany us …” Cassandra trailed off, glancing at Cullen.

“Sister Simone and Sister Kathryn are here to watch over the Commander,” Leliana said. She turned to the women. “If anything changes, send word at once.”

They curtsied and voiced their assurances.

Evelyn left the tent with Cassandra at one elbow and Leliana at the other.

“All reports indicate Corypheus has fled the field, and his officers have broken,” Leliana said.

“What happened?” Evelyn asked.

Leliana frowned. “It was a great victory, Inquisitor.”

“What happened to Cullen?” Evelyn gritted between clenched teeth.

Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a glance.

“Give me a report!”

Cassandra linked arms with Evelyn and steered her away from camp. “He had been fighting without rest for several days,” Cassandra said, pitching her voice low.

“We passed him on the way to the Well,” Evelyn said. “He was fine. He …”

_Your wish is my command._

He had promised her! She shook her head and took a steadying breath. She had to maintain control.

“A behemoth cornered some of our mages,” Cassandra said after a pause. “Cullen and a few others were nearby, but they were engaged with a group of possessed Wardens. Cullen broke off to rescue the mages.” Cassandra looked down, adjusting her gauntlets. “He was very tired, Inquisitor, and the behemoth … you know how difficult they are to fight.”

“Yes, I do.” Evelyn heard herself from a thousand miles away. She _sounded_ calm. “Did he rescue the mages?” Maker, please don’t let it have been for nothing.   

Leliana stepped forward. “Yes. We have them to thank for Commander Cullen living long enough to reach camp, actually.”

Evelyn’s palms were tacky with blood and the insides of her cheeks ached. “Please make sure they have anything they need and have Josephine give them a commendation or offer our thanks -- whatever she deems appropriate. Now, if you would update me on Corypheus’ forces and his current whereabouts?”

The pair shared another glance heavy with meaning, and Evelyn gestured for them to begin.

As she tried to pay attention, one thought plagued her: If Cullen had a nightmare, he would be unable to awaken.

 

Cullen dreamed.

 

He walked through halls and corridors that once were familiar. That familiarity had faded, and there were missing and fuzzy details that gave everything a queasy, uneven feeling.

It was dim, the shadows moving strangely, and claustrophobic, despite the soaring archways and high ceilings. The back of his neck itched, and he felt the weight of unseen eyes on him. His footsteps echoed through empty rooms.

Nothing stirred, and an inches-thick layer of dust laid over everything, nothing marring the grey expanse. Spiderwebs hung from sconces and chandeliers, not even a breath of wind to stir them. The air smelled and tasted of dust and old blood.

It had the look of a place abandoned in the middle of a busy day and untouched for years upon years.

It was the Ferelden Circle.

Cullen didn't call out. He didn't want to know if anything was here to answer him.

He explored the apprentices’ floor of the tower, unwilling or perhaps unable to climb the stairs to the mages' or the templars' floors.

To the Harrowing Chamber.

There were no doors in the lower level, not where they should have been or anywhere else for that matter. The windows were too high or the glass  wouldn't break, not even when he picked up a heavy chair and swung with all his might. He could not escape.

He did not like what the windows showed him: a cracked and scorched landscape where Lake Calenhad should have been, _things_ scuttling from crevice to crevice and a few blasted and withered trees clawing at bilious, bruised sky. Lightning lashed black and bloated tumor-like clouds. In the distance, a dark and desolate city loomed.

He descended into the vault below the Circle and found the phylactery room empty, niches holding nothing but dust. Cullen heard things moving in the darkness below ground. He did not tarry long.

He didn’t find any abominations on the mages' floor, although the memories of monsters wearing the shredded skin and clothing of mages he had known and liked would never leave him. The sudden realization, pieced together from scrap of cloth and lock of hair or piece of jewelry, that it had been a person he _knew_ was like plunging into ice water. There was no pleading, bargaining or arguing with an abomination; there was only enough left of the person they had been to make you hesitate to strike.

He had kept close watch on the mages, unable to stop seeing that grotesque evolution superimposed over their faces, following the tower’s restoration. Cullen once drew his sword on a mage struggling to hold back a sneeze. The tic resembled how the flesh had jerked and tugged before erupting. Cullen had been breathless and panicked. Greagoir sent him away shortly thereafter.

He ascended to the templars' floor, but it also was empty. None of his slain or enslaved brethren lingered to haunt him. So many of his contemporaries -- men and women with whom he grew up with in the Chantry or were his mentors -- soaked the stones with their blood, and the stone would not give it up, no matter how the Tranquils scrubbed. Walking these halls had triggered strange delusions in which he saw them killed and was helpless to stop it.

Greagoir wanted Cullen to behave as he did before Uldred’s uprising took place even as Cullen walked over the bloodstains. Cullen tried -- he didn’t want to disappoint Greagoir -- but he failed utterly.

Greagoir hadn’t been captured. He thought he knew the risk mages posed, but he didn’t. Cullen did. So Cullen had believed in his madness, and nothing Greagoir could do could break through -- it was as if the walls Cullen erected in his mind to protect himself from demons and blood mages never came down. He huddled behind them, refusing to come out.

The only part of the tower left unexplored was the Harrowing Chamber. He knew it would be so and only had delayed the inevitable.  

 

Cullen climbed the stars.

 

Amell stood at the other side of the room, her back to him, looking out a window at the nightmare landscape. The impractical window had not existed in the Harrowing Chamber he remembered.

The walls and floor were plated with blood and gore. It dripped from the ceiling like a monstrous rain, and the place stank like a slaughterhouse.

Cullen stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs. "Demon."

Amell turned to him. She looked as she did the day of her Harrowing, although ten years and a blight had passed. "I am not possessed, Cullen."

"Nor are you Amell."

She walked toward him, hips swaying in a way that was sickeningly familiar. "If I am not the one you love, why do you visit me every night?"

"I do not know you, demon."

She smiled, eyes fluttering closed with ecstasy. "You have given so much of yourself to me. I have grown strong on your suffering, your unrequited longing."

"I do not know you, demon."

She reached out, running her fingers through the gore coating the walls, then sucked the blood and viscera from her fingers. "Yum. You taste so good. You never left Kinloch, did you, Cullen? You are still trapped after all these years."

"I do not know you, demon."

She bared her stained teeth in something that could either be a smile or a snarl. "We have the Circle all to ourselves now. No more broken vows."

He shook his head. "I didn't break my vows." Even as he said it, he knew it was correct. He was true to his vows at Ferelden Circle. "Even when I would have called for a Rite of Annulment, Amell wouldn't allow it. She saved me from you and from myself. You taking her seeming is profane. I did not harm my charges, despite what you did to me, demon." He reached out and grabbed Not-Amell by the throat, crushing her windpipe under his gloved fist.

Purple light flared behind her eyes and she clawed at his vambraces. She tried to speak, but only strangled gasps came out.

"I was true, once. And you have been allowed to have power over me for far too long. I repute you, demon."

He strangled it with both hands, and it collapsed to its knees, scrabbling at his legs in a mockery of caresses, mewling and giggling. Cullen's lips peeled back from his teeth in disgust. He had had real passion, and this apery was grotesque.

It changed its seeming, first to Hawke, then to Evelyn. At the last, Cullen averted his eyes, and the demon renewed its struggles, pawing at him, its touch obscene.

"You are not her," he snarled between clenched teeth. "You are not Amell, and you are not the one I love." A strange calmness settled over him. “It was not wrong, no matter what they said, my admiration for Amell … it was not a sin.”

With a flare of purple light, she crumbled into dust, slipping through his clenched fingers.

With a deep, basso rumble, the tower began to shake, and the window shattered, glass flying at him like daggers. Cullen raised his arms to shield his face as the stone beneath his feet splintered.

 

He fell.


	23. Cullen: Chantry-Yoked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen confronts more demons from his past.

It had been three days, and Cullen hadn't woken. Evelyn only left his side when her duties forced her.

Corypheus still lived, and his next move was a mystery. Evelyn tried to care, invoked the Haven slaughter, but Cullen's occasional cries of pain were more pressing than the reports from the field. She slept little and ate less.

Cassandra was her most frequent companion in her futile vigil, but they all came, even if only for a few minutes. Cole had spent an entire afternoon with her, although she knew her pain hurt him. Evelyn had managed to steal a few hours sleep, and she wondered if Cole had done something or if his presence was simply soothing. Maybe knowing someone wanted to help let her sleep.

Dorian would announce his presence with a quiet touch; she never saw him at a loss for words before. Varric held long, one-sided conversations with Cullen, referencing their time in Kirkwall, while Vivienne constantly conferred with the healers and brought Evelyn cup after cup of her favorite tea with honey and orange zest. Solas presented her with an ancient tome on the healing arts, many obscure or previously lost, but was tight-lipped about where he obtained it.

Sera produced pomade for Cullen’s hair and blanched when Evelyn threw her arms around her and half-gasped and half-sobbed her thanks. Bull and Blackwall had appointed themselves unofficial guards when they weren’t prowling through the Wilds, taking their frustration out on any Ventori stragglers they could lay their hands on.

They could no longer stay in the Wilds. Cullen would have to be moved by wagon, despite his injuries. The surgeon had visited to change Cullen’s bandages and check his wounds.  

The mage healer also checked on his patient, as he had three or four times a day since Cullen had been injured. The mage cast another healing spell. This time, Cullen didn’t gasp, and Evelyn wondered if this was a good development or bad.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name before,” she said in a low voice. The sick room demanded hushed voices.

“Jacob.” He also kept his voice low. “Do not worry yourself over it, Your Worship. I understand. You are worried about the commander. It is difficult to focus when you’re worried about someone you care about.”

Evelyn bit her lip and lowered her eyes. She had lost control  … and she didn’t care who had seen it. “I beg your pardon now, however. I should have asked. I thank you again for your attention to the commander’s injuries. It is obvious you are a skilled healer and your devotion to the commander’s recovery hasn’t gone unremarked. … I have never been talented at healing. I envy your abilities.” If only she could help Cullen now; she would give anything.

Jacob looked down at Cullen, who was pale and motionless. “One of the mages the commander rescued … he is very special to me -- in the way the commander obviously is to you. If something had happened to Fergus … Commander Cullen saved his life. If I can save his in return, then I will.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t care if her behavior confirmed every rumor about herself and Cullen.

Cassandra came into the tent. “Inquisitor, it is time to leave.” She turned and held back the edge of the tent flap, allowing a group of soldiers to carry in a stretcher. The surgeon followed them.

“Lift him carefully,” the surgeon said. “Like he’s your own newborn babe.”

They did, they did, but Cullen cried out anyway. Evelyn pressed a hand to her mouth to contain her own cry of pain. Jacob took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back, grateful for the simple comfort of touch.

Cassandra herself cradled Cullen’s head and shoulders, her expression grim and pained.

They transferred him to the stretcher, then carried him out of the tent. Evelyn followed behind, still holding Jacob’s hand. As they exited the tent, she saw much of the army had gathered, and, as Cullen’s stretcher passed by, they bowed their heads and clapped fists to their hearts.

It was a gesture of respect, but …

It felt like a funeral procession.

##

Cullen opened his eyes.

He was on his back, staring up at a roughly hewn wooden ceiling. He struggled into a sitting position, pushing aside a coarse, undyed blanket.

Cullen was in a room with spartan cots lining either wall, each with a rude wooden chest at the foot. Cullen knew without looking none of them had locks. There was no privacy here.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood. A pair of double doors were at one end of the barracks, and the far end stretched away into darkness. That darkness looked ... hungry. Silence laid over everything like a shroud. The air was rank with the smell of carrion, and he snarled in disgust, trying to expel the bad air in exchange for fresh.

He walked to the double doors, turning his back to the eager darkness. Something moved in the far reaches of the room. It slithered with the dry hiss of scales moving against one another.

He knew what it was: his addiction.  

Cullen opened the doors and stepped into a bleary, greasy red light. He shut the doors behind him with more than a little relief, then hefted the heavy bar into place. The barracks weren't built to keep others out, but to confine those within. Something thumped against the inside of the door, rattling the bar in its cradle, but it held.

Cullen advanced into the open space that was once a lawn. The barracks stood at the northern edge, a chantry and hospital to the west, quarters and storage to the east and a gate to the south. Beyond the buildings was a once meticulously maintained garden gone to seed and riot. Disturbingly fleshy flowers and skeletal, malformed trees fought their way free of heavy, clutching undergrowth, mutely striving toward a red sun setting in the south. The high walls were no longer visible beyond the garden, but Cullen knew they were there.

The lawn was churned blood and mud, clotted, stinking and sticky, trying to pull his boots off with each squelching step.

He waded toward the twelve-foot-high statue of Burning Andraste in the center on the lawn. Her arms were raised to the sky and eyes lifted as to plead on behalf of those huddled in a ring around her.

Every man and woman was dead and had been so for a long time. There were no clergy nor seekers among them. They were templars.

Cullen stopped well short. The bodies had begun to ooze fluids, eyes drooping toward cheeks and black ichor painting their mouths. He had the disquieting idea they would rise as darkspawn if he came too close. Thought was truth in the Fade.

The stench was a miasma that could be tasted as well, and a droning, undulating carpet of flies covered them. Cullen spat, longing for clean water and fresh air.

This was Greenfell in war, where sisters and seekers abandoned their charges and the mad slaughtered the senile. Greenfell, where he came to heal and let horrors fade, but was instead first seduced by Meredith's ideology.

It was at Greenfell he was confronted with the fate of all templars: the vacant eyes and disoriented shuffle, the babbling and forgetfulness. They were locked in at night so they couldn’t wander off, and it was rare when morning didn’t bring the discovery of a man or woman barely past middle age cold and stiff in their cot, only to be unceremoniously bundled up and carted off. There were no funeral rites because most of their fellows would forget them by mid-afternoon.

Cullen had heard those templars still in sound mind speculate the forgetfulness must be a blessing, but they never saw a man famed for tracking and killing demons wallowing in his own shit, the sisters trying to coax him into the bath house while he screamed inchoately. Or a woman of quick wit staring bemusedly into a corner, drooling. Or a man who trained hundreds of initiates, his shoulders and chest still strong from years of daily swordplay, weeping into his morning gruel.

Cullen saw what lyrium did, remembered Ferelden Circle and thought it was true: The madness was a blessing. He would give anything to forget, yet … he looked at those who were lost and living at once, and felt pity, horror and disgust. He didn’t want to be them, but he envied their forgetting.

Their nightmares were never so bad that the seekers bound them to their cots to keep them from thrashing and forced wooden bits between their teeth to muffle their screams in the night. Sometimes, Cullen overturned his cot in his terror and had to lay as it had landed, bound, until morning came.

Each morning, after the dead were taken away, the broken-down templars would gather at the chantry for the morning services and open their mouths like a crop of eager baby birds as a sister distributed the daily dose of lyrium, her disgust poorly hidden -- although the templars she recoiled from would have put their bodies between her and any danger before they lost themselves to the drug.

Cullen knelt among them, and when the lyrium came to him, he did not refuse it.

 

Cullen never knew what errand brought Meredith across the Waking Sea and to Greenfell. She never told him, and he had been afraid to ask. He had cherished the thought that she came for _him_ in the early days, although he knew it wasn’t true by the time the red idol took her. He just didn’t want it confirmed.

He had been faintly amazed when the sisters came to fetch him, telling him a knight-commander was there to see him. He had hoped Greagoir decided he had been punished enough for those reactions Cullen could not help.

Instead, he walked the gardens with Knight-Commander Meredith, a rising star who ruled over the largest Circle in the Free Marches.

She spoke to him about how she joined the Order after her sister died.

“We heard the propaganda that Circles were prisons,” she said. “We thought we were protecting her, but we were keeping her from those who would have guided her. You have been at a Circle -- did it appear a prison?”

Cullen shook his head. Before Uldred’s uprising and his imprisonment, the Ferelden Circle had seemed to be much like a university to him.

“Just so,” Meredith said as if he had spoken.

Meredith’s entire family was killed when her sister became an abomination, and she only was spared because she was sent on an errand to a neighbor’s home. The neighbor hid Meredith with her own children when the screaming began and left to lure away the abomination. She was killed by the creature. Seventeen died before Kirkwall’s templars arrived and could destroy the abomination that had been Amelia Stannard.

“Knowing she was an unwilling witness to what the demon did with her body -- it was a relief to know she was freed from that,” Meredith said. “Each time I destroy an abomination, I remember I am both freeing and avenging the possessed mage.”

When the templars returned to the Gallows after Amelia Stannard’s death, Meredith went with them, their newest initiate, riding before Ser Guylian. She had not even stopped to wipe the blood and tears from her cheeks.

“You understand as few others can how dangerous they can be,” Meredith said.

“Yes.” Here was someone who understood, who listened. Cullen couldn’t believe his luck.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

So he had, the words flowing like poison from a wound: everything from the torture he endured to the nightmares he still had and Uldred’s plotting, so clear in hindsight, to his frustration Greagoir was too lenient, even after so many were killed.

“Why is it that he has you here?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Uldred was tasked with uncovering blood mages, and instead, he nurtured them. The tower was infested and none of us suspected. Even if Irving is free of corruption, he was blind, as was Gregoir, and so many of my brothers and sisters died. And the children … ”

She shook her head sadly.

“I can still serve,” Cullen insisted. He was only twenty and had many good years before the lyrium would take his mind. The thought of spending all those years in Greenfell, trapped among the walking dead, was as terrifying as his nightmares. “I still _want_ to serve.”  

“You know what they are capable of, and you’re not afraid? You want to leave the peace here and serve again, knowing what could happen?”

“No,” Cullen swore. “I am not afraid. I want to serve.”

Meredith smiled. “You are brave.”

He was gullible.

 

Cullen regarded the dead before him with dismay, although he knew it to be a lie. Some had died, yes, but the Inquisition rescued many of those left at Greenfell.

He so easily could have been one of them and might still join their ranks. He didn’t pretend he could throw off more than a decade’s worth of ingesting lyrium with no consequences.

 _Maker, even if I forget everything else, let me remember_ her _. Let me remember Evelyn. Let me remember the respite she brought._

Cullen wasn’t surprised when the gates on the other side of the compound opened with a crack like lightning, and he wasn’t surprised to see Meredith framed between the shattered and splintered gates.

The thing that took Meredith’s shape -- and Cullen appreciated the irony of a demon taking _Meredith’s_ shape -- strode toward him. Meredith walked as if she would walk through anything in her way, and so did this demon. It trod over the bodies in the center of the lawn, and they burst like overripe fruit under its heel. Meredith’s eyes had been described as icy, but that wasn’t true. They were the color of a fire so hot it could reduce a man to ash and dust.

The demon seized him around the throat with both hands. “You will do as I command, Cullen!”

Cullen grabbed her wrists and tried to wrench free of her hold, but to no avail. She pressed her thumbs into his windpipe.

His chest hurt. It felt as if it were crushed. He couldn’t get enough air.

Meredith pressed down, forcing him to his knees. “My own knight-captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic. You follow a false prophet -- a blood mage -- and your actions bring destruction to the Order.”

He tried to tell her she was wrong, but only managed to wheeze. Meredith had been strong, but not strong enough to subdue him in such a way.

Perhaps this was the same demon he so recently vanquished?

“I will not allow insubordination! We must stay true to our path!” Her eyes flashed red.

He thrashed, trying to regain his feet. If he could only get a full breath!

She leaned into him, and her eyes were fire. Her body threw off so much heat that it was like being strangled by a furnace. The heat Meredith threw off baked the ground and dried the mud.

“Idiot boy, just like all the others.”

 _You also matter_.

Evelyn told him that -- and meant it -- at the Winter Palace, before they became lovers. He still marveled she could care for the welfare of a templar. If Cullen died here in the Fade, he would never see her again. He planted his heel and found purchase.

Cullen stood.

“Your personal vendetta was never what the Order stood for.” He threw her off and she fell back. He stalked toward her, shaking with righteous anger. His sword was in his hand and he wasn’t aware of drawing it.

She scrabbled backwards. “Maker, your servant begs you for strength to defeat this evil.”

He raised his sword. This is what he should have done before it came to pitched battle in the Gallows. Cullen should have never allowed that burden to pass over him to Hawke. Meredith was his commanding officer and his responsibility.

“I will not be defeated!” Her eyes flashed red. Red, like the lyrium that infected and destroyed the Order. In that moment, she represented everything Cullen hated about the Order: the hypocrisy, the self-righteousness, the lack of self-examination and refusal to ask questions.

Cullen quaked with rage. He took a breath, ready to let the blow fall.

The demon smiled.

Cullen stopped. Lowered his sword.

The demon snarled and surged to its feet, then rushed at him.

He stepped back, sword pointed at the ground. Cullen turned his back on the demon. He bowed his head. “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter.”

A scorching wind scoured him, hotter than dragon’s breath, and he cried out as the pain sank deep into his bones.

Had he been wrong to turn his back on Rage?

Cullen fell to his knees, then to all fours as the wind howled around him and he existed in the pain. He struggled to draw one breath after another.

Blackness blossomed before his eyes and he knew nothing more.


	24. Cullen: Gallows-Hanged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finds enemies are closer than he thinks, but an unexpected friend saves the day.

Cullen had taken a turn for the worse.

He burned with fever, skin damp with sweat, lips cracked and eyelids fluttering with some delirium dream. Evelyn bathed him with cool water, but there was little else she could do and it killed her. He had nurses, but she sent them away and cared for his every need herself, terrified he would die if she left his side.

Cullen was wasting away. Evelyn fed him gruel and water, drop by patient drop, spoonful by spoonful, massaging his throat to encourage him to swallow. It wasn’t enough. If he didn’t wake up soon and eat … he might never wake up.

She was at the far end of the tent as the surgeon attempted to insert a leather tube down Cullen’s throat with the idea he could be fed by pouring gruel down it. Evelyn pressed her face into Dorian’s shoulder, hoping no one would later notice the wet splotches from her tears. Dorian's arms around her were the only things keeping her from flying to pieces.

Cullen made terrible choking and gagging noises as the surgeon cursed low and long.

“Void-damned thing!” she said. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn shook her head, and Dorian translated. “No need for apologies,” he said.

Cullen was racked by another fit of gagging, and Evelyn made a piteous noise, muffled by Dorian's tunic. Dorian stroked her back soothingly.

“How will you know it’s in his stomach and not in his lungs?” Dorian asked. He was nervous, because he sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. Dorian’s philosophy could be summed up as “fake it until you make it.” Like Evelyn, he was loath to show any emotion that wasn't carefully curated.

The surgeon frowned. “If too much of the tube is protruding from his mouth, then I’d guess it went down into his lungs.”

“And if it does?”

“Then he’ll drown,” the surgeon said shortly. “It’s better than slow death by starvation.”

##

Grit ground under his feet. Cullen opened his eyes and froze. Moonlight silvered statues and touched great spikes of red lyrium with a strange luminescence. Heat rolled off them, shimmering in the night air. Walls unspooled up into the darkness, so high he couldn't see the stars -- perhaps there were no stars here. Twisted metal and chunks of stone hinted at a battle that took place years before. The air vibrated with echoes of madness.

The Gallows.

The lyrium sang. He could feel the timbre of it in his bones. A sudden, overwhelming desire for the drug swept over him, trying to drag him under. He staggered, going to a knee.

Cullen ground his teeth and clenched his fists. He refused to be enslaved by ordinary lyrium, and he would not submit to the red. He stood, every muscle and tendon in his body too tight, protesting. His mouth was dry cotton and his joints ground glass. His heart beat in his ears, a bass line beneath the lyrium's lure.

Cullen staggered toward the gates. Kirkwall was beyond; the streets had yet to fall completely under Meredith's sphere of influence. It was strongest here, and so was the red. He did not think it a coincidence.

Cullen stopped, gasping in the heat, and leaned against a grotesque statue of a slave writhing in agony. The statutes unnerved him when he first arrived at the Gallows, but he soon become inured to their presence. He suspected the fault was in him, rather than in the unnamed artist's skill.

He heard the red growing. It sounded like chimes, and became part of the song.

Cullen stood. The heat closed around him like a fist. Cullen looked at the gates again and realized they were as far as when he took the first step.

His shoulders sagged. Sweat dampened his hairline and ran down his back. The music of the red was louder.

There was someone else here. They swaggered across the expanse between Cullen and the gate. Lightning danced over their fingertips. Dark hair streamed behind them, floating, lifted by the waves of heat.

Cullen stepped forward. "Hawke?"

She stopped, a hand on her cocked hip and a crooked smile on her lips. Her eyes glowed with blue-white fire.

"Knight-Captain."

He shook his head. "Not anymore."

She moved forward, all deadly grace and focused intent. "Always. You can't leave yourself behind. You are the knight-captain. Did you think taking a new title would change who you are? That a change of armor would fool anyone? You are the knight-captain down to your bones. You will always be the knight-captain."

"I've changed."

"Have you?" She stalked around him. "You've renounced the Circle? Turned your back on the Chantry? Or do you work to restore them both?"

"I work so that all may be safe, mage and templar, and to end this war. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to yourself. But for a twist of fate, you might have been at the head of the red army yourself."

"No."

"Yes. If Meredith gave you the red, you would have taken it, just as you did everything she told you. You were hers, mind and body."

Cullen shivered despite the heat. "I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have lied to my templars."

"Corypheus was already in Kirkwall. When did he recruit Samson? Who gave Meredith the idol? You missed becoming a red templar by a handful of months. If Meredith told you the red would give you the power to subdue the mages, if she told you it was your duty to guard against abuses of magic, you would have taken it."

He shook his head. "No."

"Lies. You ate it up when she told you that you were special, different, more perceptive. You wanted to be special, but you didn't want it so much in the end, did you?" She laughed, and it raised his hackles.

She was right. If Meredith gave him the red, he would have taken it. He would be a red templar if not for Hawke.

Samson had been the better man, and he fell. Cullen obeyed Meredith and did things he knew were wrong, allowing cruelties and abuses. He looked back clearly at those years now and knew the shame that should have stopped him then. His prideful belief he knew the greater good was unshakeable -- until Hawke wrenched the scales from his eyes.

And Cullen had been afraid. His fear had been as constant and integral as his heartbeat.

He shook his head, mute with doubt. Faux Hawke circled like a shark.

"You would have taken the red gladly." Her smile was crueler and sharper than any blade. "And you would have given it to your subordinates."

He wanted to say no, but he kept things from Meredith, kept things from Hawke, kept things from his templars depending on what he knew or suspected they did. Cullen became very good at compartmentalizing in the last few years before the red idol took Meredith. Cullen couldn't lie well, but he could ... just not think about things. It was the only way to survive.

If Meredith said survival depended on the red, he would have taken it. Cullen was talented at survival.

"I ... yes. I would have." He bowed his head.

"You deserve this," Faux Hawke said. "You deserve pain and misery."

The red sang, as if it fed on his pain, his anguish. It grew into a forest before his eyes, flowing into columns, branching out to hide the darkened, dead sky, streams of the stuff sliding along the cobblestones, making them slippery and treacherous. Cullen had the sense that it was hungry, and if he stood still and watched it long enough, it would swallow him whole. Watching it stretch toward the sky and feeling the wave of heat washing over him, Cullen's eyelids were strangely heavy. The idea of lying down and just ... taking a rest ... was hugely appealing. 

As Cullen fought to keep his eyes open, the Knight-Captain strode out of the red lyrium. It was like having a bucket of cold water thrown over him, and Cullen recoiled.

"You should have been among the red templars." The Knight-Captain's face was unscarred, but mottled red veins contrasted starkly with pale skin and his eyes were soulless black pits, illuminated by an sickly green light. He wore the templar armor Cullen had discarded.

"You should not be leading the Inquisition forces," the Knight-Captain said. "You should have died on their blades, like Carroll. Even that poor broken bastard managed to keep his vows better than you." The Knight-Captain sneered in disgust. "A mage -- a maleficar -- and you follow her. We kill such here in the Gallows."

Cullen drew his sword. "I will die before I allow her to come to harm."

The Knight-Captain laughed. "You can't kill me. I am you. Did you think you could escape yourself? No matter where you go, I am with you. Soon, I will see through your eyes and I will do the duty you should have done."

"I will not be ruled by fear again." Cullen flexed his shoulders and rolled his wrist, warming up his sword arm.

Faux Hawke tittered breathlessly, and Cullen noted her position and the distance between them. He didn't doubt she would work with the Knight-Captain to bring him down.  

"I will bring an end to this farce," the Knight-Captain said. "It is I who is our true self and you who is our foolish longing. The lyrium will make us -- me -- strong again, and it will be as if you never existed."

"You aren't me," Cullen said steadily. "You wear the seeming of the man I once was -- the one I am afraid to become again -- but you are not me, and I am no longer that man."

The Knight-Captain roared in fury and struck.

Fighting the Knight-Captain was fighting himself. The Knight-Captain knew what Cullen knew and moved as he did. But Cullen's opponent didn't tire nor did the heat sap his stamina.

Faux Hawke circled, zapping Cullen whenever he gained the upper hand.

They were playing with him.

Cullen breathed heavily, slowing, but still strove. He didn't think the Knight-Captain could take his body as he claimed; Cullen was no mage. But there was the possibility his demon-ridden corpse might rise. He would spare Evelyn from having to strike it down if it were in his power.

Cullen thrust his shield against the other, putting his back into it, but Faux Hawke chose that moment to hit him with chain lightning and Cullen went down, muscles spasming, his sword falling from a numbed hand. He looked up at the demon wearing his face and knew he had failed. It simply had been too much …

But this was not the first time he had that thought. He had a hazy memory of an angry, animalistic roar and a pain in his chest that took all concentration and thought. There had been blood on the leaves blanketing the forest floor and there was still more with every beat of his heart …

The Knight-Captain smiled and raised his sword.

"Leave him alone!" A bolt of electricity hit the Knight-Captain in the chest, throwing him back into a pillar of red lyrium, which shattered under the impact. Faux Hawke hissed in anger.

Cullen snatched his sword, rose and turned toward his rescuer.

Yet _another_ Hawke limped out of the growing forest of lyrium. A large bruise marred one side of her face, and blood matted her hair, but she came steadily on until she reached Cullen.

"Huh." Hawke watched as her false counterpart pulled the Knight-Captain from the jagged chunks of lyrium. "You know, I always wanted to do that. Hit you with a lightning bolt, that is."

"I could never have guessed, the way you would caress your staff and give me dark looks," Cullen said drily.

"You couldn't have dreamed of your lady love or something equally benign?"

"Given what I've encountered thus far, that probably wouldn't turn out well." He cleared his throat. "Besides, she is angry with me."

Hawke shrugged. "Better get used to it. You have an amazing talent for saying or doing the stupidest thing when it comes to mages."

"It is far beyond that."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Really screwed the marbari this time, did you?"

Cullen coughed. "You might say that."

"Well, we need to get you out of here so you can fix it," Hawke said. "Just mind that you don't fuck it up again."

"I will endeavor not to do so."

The two demons circled them warily. The Knight-Captain had cut his scalp open on the lyrium and it bled freely.

Cullen wiped sweat from his brow even as the Knight-Captain pawed blood from his face.

Hawke touched Cullen's shoulder, and a cool breeze refreshed and reinvigorated him.

"Why don't you do that to yourself?" he asked.

Hawke made a face. "I did. You should have seen me earlier. The Nightmare is no trifle."

Faux Hawke sent a bolt at them, and Cullen ducked while Hawke cast a spell shield. Hawke shot a bolt at the demon in her seeming in return, but Faux Hawke shrugged it off and shook a finger at them mockingly.

"Pride goes before a fall," Hawke said.

"Switch?" Cullen asked.

"Sounds good to me."

Cullen advanced on Faux Hawke, but she was as slippery as Hawke had ever been. He kept his shield up and a close eye on her as she scampered ahead. She was sneaky and waited for opportunities when he was distracted, trying to keep his footing amidst the growing lyrium.

Hawke had more success, but not much. The Knight-Captain knew all Cullen knew about fighting mages.

Cullen dodged around columns of lyrium, many of which exploded as Faux Hawke hurled balls of electricity at him. This wasn’t working; Cullen and Hawke were on the defensive, and the Knight-Captain and Faux Hawke were no longer amusing themselves. As a team, Cullen and Hawke were a danger instead of a diversion -- one they clearly intended to eliminate quickly.

Cullen rounded another column, batting away flying lyrium shards, and came face-to-face with Hawke.

“This is starting to piss me off,” Hawke said.

“Only starting?” Cullen deflected another bolt.

“You were very good for my patience.”

“We need to concentrate on one at a time,” he said.

“Won’t that give the other a chance to knife us in the back?”

It was a chance they would have to take. “The Knight-Captain first,” he said.

Hawke grinned. “I am about to fulfill one of my most cherished fantasies.”

“Try not to enjoy yourself too much,” Cullen drawled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try not to enjoy myself more than when you fulfilled those _other_ fantasies.”

“I should hope not,” Cullen said. “You’ll destroy my ego.”

“You could use a bit of humbling.”

Cullen shook his head, but it wasn’t without merit.

“You rush him, and I’ll keep him on his toes,” Hawke said.

Cullen advanced on the Knight-Captain, and Faux Hawke threw a flurry of bolts at him, but Hawke cast an arcane shield and the bolts splashed off harmlessly. Without having to worry about Faux Hawke, Cullen engaged the Knight-Captain. This time, Hawke harried the Knight-Captain, giving Cullen some breathing room.

Their swords threw off sparks as they clashed and ground together. Cullen snarled with effort as he shoved, trying to throw the Knight-Captain off balance. He hooked a foot behind the Knight-Captain’s calf -- a trick he learned from Blackwall -- and yanked his leg out from under him. The Knight-Captain landed flat on its back, and Cullen steeled himself for the killing blow. Putting a sword through your own chest required a certain amount of fortitude.

As he readied himself, magic brushed by him, making his every hair stand on end with static electricity, and the Knight-Captain’s body danced and jittered with electrical current, heels drumming against the ground and eyes glazing over in death.

Cullen glared at Hawke. “You denied me the opportunity to kill off the worst in myself?”

“Wow,” Hawke said. “That _did_ feel good. Amazing, in fact.”

Cullen crossed his arms.

“Oh, don’t pout, Cullen, that wasn’t you.”

“I think that brought you more joy than I ever did,” Cullen said.

“I wouldn’t say th--” Hawke didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence, because Cullen pulled her into his arms, dropped into a crouch and raised his shield to shelter them from the flames Faux Hawke sent roaring toward them.

“Cheat!” Hawke yelled. “I’ve never been able to cast that!”

“It’s a basic spell,” Cullen said.

“I know,” Hawke sighed. “I’ve only been able to cast it once or twice without an explosion.”

“An explosion wouldn’t be amiss right now.” The flames tapered off, and Cullen peeked around the edge of the shield, only to have his nose nearly taken off by a sizzling ball of light.

“Trust me, it wouldn’t.”

“Anything would be good right now,” he amended.

Hawke nodded and, with a gesture, sent howling winds at her doppleganger, freezing her in place.

Cullen rose and, running, crossed the space between them with a handful of strides and took Faux Hawke’s head off with one swing. As the head hit the ground, its eyes moved to follow him and its mouth formed words Cullen couldn’t make out.

Hawke came to stand beside him. “You can’t say you didn’t like that at least a little.” She nudged the severed head with a toe. With a pop and spray of electrical sparks, the head and body disappeared, re-absorbed by the Fade.

“Not particularly, no,” Cullen said.

“Excuse me if I don’t believe you.” She poked the Knight-Captain’s body with her staff, and it dissolved into a black vapor that sank into the ground. “Ew.”

“Come on, Hawke, we have to get out of here.”

“Don’t be daft,” she said. “You’re not here, Cullen.”

“Hawke, we just killed two demons -- together,” he said. She had been good for his patience as well.

“In the Fade. You’re dreaming, Cullen.” She brightened. “Dreaming about me, which I find terribly flattering and how I was able to find you, but dreaming all the same.”

He stepped back and raised his sword. Of course he was in the Fade, he knew that, had known it the entire time …

“Don’t be stupid and waggle that sword at me, Cullen.” Hawke frowned. “Don’t you remember Adamant? I fell into the Fade with the Inquisitor? Someone had to stay behind and fight the Nightmare? Don’t you remember?” Her frown deepened. “You weren’t hurt during the battle, were you?”

“I … no, wait … I was hurt … but not at Adamant … ” Why couldn’t he remember why he was here?

“You’re dreaming and you need to wake up,” Hawke said. “I can’t go with you. You need to leave. Staying in the Fade for too long isn’t good for non-mages.”

“Hawke, I can’t leave without you, you saved my life -- again.”

“Of course you can. Wake up.”

“But you’re stuck here,” he said.

“Yes, that’s why I can’t escape the same way you can.” She planted her staff and leaned against it, and he could see how exhausted she was in the drooping line of her shoulders. But she held her head high and her eyes were clear and bright.

“We haven’t forgotten you,” he promised. “Evelyn hasn’t given up. She is researching a way back into the Fade to find you.”

She smiled, but it was a tired smile. “Good. Go back and tell her I live.”

Something nagged him, some thought, half-forgotten. “We are in the Arbor Wilds ... “ It sounded like a question. “Evelyn is on her way to fight Corypheus, and I … ”

“What happened?” Hawke asked.

“ … I don’t know.” Why couldn’t he remember? He didn’t know the answer to the question more important to him than anything else: Did Evelyn still live? “I don’t know if she ... “

Hawke's eyes widened with concern. “Cullen, listen to me: Wake up. You’ve been here too long. You’re losing pieces of yourself.”

“I don’t think I can or I would have already.” The panic at not knowing the result of Evelyn’s encounter with Corypheus should have woken him. His heart beat too fast and the anxiety had weight.

An inky blackness gathered above, darker than even the night. Tendrils of it unfurled, caressing the highest branches of the lyrium forest. Hawke looked up, fear and determination warring for supremacy in her expression. Cullen never had seen her afraid, not even when Meredith brought the old Tevinter statues to life.

“It’s the Nightmare,” she said. “It followed me. You have to go now, Cullen. If you can’t wake up, you have to go.” Lightning gathered around her hands, and the air tasted like ozone.

“I can’t leave you alone like this.”

“Be sensible.” She watched the gathering darkness. “Go back, tell them I’m alive. Tell Sebastian I haven’t given up. Do this for me, Cullen."  Her eyes darkened with grief. "I helped you defeat those things, so you go tell my husband I’m waiting for him to get up off his ass, be the white knight he fancies himself and rescue me. He’s taking his own sweet time about it. I won’t give up, not as long as there’s a chance to see him again. You tell him that for me.” She set her staff, braced her feet and faced the darkness rippling across the sky. “Go _now_ , Cullen -- before it’s too late.”

“We will rescue you -- I swear it.”

“I know.”

“Don’t give up, Hawke.”

She twirled her staff, gathering her considerable power. “I never have. Now go.”

Something took shape on the far side of the Gallows, and Hawke strode forward to meet it. “ _Run_ , Cullen.”

It broke something in him to turn his back on that small, brave figure and make for the gate on the other side of the Gallows. This time, he had no problem reaching the gate, where he stopped and glanced back. Black clouds and lightning roiled, but he could not see Hawke.

“Don’t give up,” he whispered.

_I won’t. Go._ Did he hear it or did he imagine it?

He leaped through the gate into … nothing. The narrow streets he expected and knew so well weren’t there. There was nothing. He turned, blinded by the nothingness, and the gate was gone.

Cullen saw nothing and felt nothing beneath his feet. Groping in the darkness, he could find no anchor, no point of reference. It was a black and fathomless _Void_.


	25. Cullen: Snow-Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is lost. Very, very lost.

They finally returned to Skyhold, and her duties, easily ignored while they traveled, weighed on Evelyn.

Cullen had not awakened, but between Jacob's devotion to his recuperation, the surgeon's skill and the feeding tube working as intended, he had begun healing. She only prayed they had saved Cullen, and not a husk he left behind. The idea he might never wake up haunted her.

Getting him up the ladder and into his loft was impossible, so she had him brought to her apartments. She didn't give a damn if it fanned the flames of gossip. She was able to work, knowing she only had to look up from the latest reports to see him.

The call went out for talented healers, but Evelyn doubted any would be as committed as Jacob, and he was an accomplished spirit healer. Still, it allowed Josephine and Leliana to take action, and that made them feel less helpless. She understood the need to do something.

Evelyn sighed, stretched and put down a report on suspected Grey Warden activity. She was so tired the words blurred. She spoke briefly to Cullen's nurse, dismissing her for the evening; if his condition changed, she would send for assistance. She was thankful his recovery progressed to the point where that was possible.

Once the nurse was gone, Evelyn stripped off her uniform, subtle and rich finery to impress people she didn't care about, then pulled a linen shift over her head, deep in thought. She had been sleeping on the chaise, but she yearned for Cullen. Having him in her bed reminded her of so many pleasurable nights and pleasant mornings.

She hadn't known what she had, waking up in his arms.

Given their estrangement, he had not held her in a long time, and she wouldn’t sleep beside him. He couldn’t give her permission, and she was afraid of jostling him.

The surgeon visited today and proclaimed herself pleased with the healing process, even complimenting Jacob's efforts. The stitches would come out sooner rather than later, and she was impressed with the speed his ribs were mending.

He wore no tunic, allowing the healer and surgeon quick access at need and exposing the patina of bruises. They were beginning to fade, and Evelyn counted no less than eight different shades of color.

Gingerly, Evelyn sat on the edge of the mattress, watching Cullen carefully for any sign of discomfort. When she saw no change, she blew the candle out.

Evelyn sat in the dark and thought about her selfishness.

She didn't have to be the Inquisitor here and now, so she allowed herself tears. She let herself be weak; there was no one to see and use it against her -- only Cullen, silent and unresponsive. She curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest, not bothering to muffle her sobs. Her shoulders shook as they were wrenched from her throat.

She had never been more miserable, and it was her fault. She could have had Cullen by her side these past few months, but she chose pride. Now, she might lose him forever.

She had been stupid to think they would have time to fix everything that went wrong between them. Evelyn had held back, wanting to avoid a distraction just before facing Corypheus.

And she had been afraid Cullen had moved on. She was so frightened, she preferred to take a fragile hope into battle instead of facing her fears. If she died, better to do so with the hope he still loved her than potentially confront the truth he didn't.

She knew Cullen intended to be on the front lines. Evelyn never dreamed he would fall in battle; he survived all else. Why hadn't she told him she loved him? Given the danger they had been in, why had she thought it could wait?

So much had passed between them, and she had been overwhelmed with the work and forgiveness repairing and rebuilding their relationship would require. How foolish her hesitation seemed now. Cullen would have forgiven her, if she sought forgiveness. What did being right or wrong matter, when she was so unhappy without him?

She should have told him she loved him. If she had, would he have been more careful, knowing they had a future together? Would he not have engaged the behemoth?

She closed her eyes and shook her head. No; she would not wish this pain on anyone else, especially not Jacob. That morning, he told her he had to make Cullen well, because Fergus wanted to thank the man who saved his life.

That Cullen risked his life to save mages without pause had to mean he had changed. Or was changing.

She should have told him. It might not have changed anything, but at least he would have known.

She ran a finger along his strong jaw; she shaved him two days ago and would need to do so again soon. Evelyn would see that he wanted for nothing until ... until ... She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing so she wouldn't fall apart.

Cullen's skin was chill and clammy. She wondered whether she should call for the nurse, but even her healing skills were the equal of a chill. And she wanted to keep him to herself, even just for a little while. She called on her magic and channeled warmth down her fingers, letting it slide over his skin, surrounding him with her magic and her love.

She stretched out beside him, exhausted from weeping. Evelyn ached to cuddle against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder and his arm around her, but his ribs were cracked and he couldn't hold her. So she laid next to him.

She pressed a feather-light kiss on his shoulder, tasting the salt of her own tears. "I love you," she whispered into the darkness, praying he somehow heard her.

She expected to watch the darkness for a long time, but she was emotionally drained. Evelyn fell asleep listening to the comforting, even rhythm of Cullen breathing.

##

Cullen walked. He didn't know what else to do, so he did as he always did: He pressed forward. He had been walking for a very long time and his muscles trembled with fatigue, but he forced himself onward. Once, he would have done it out of duty, but now he had hope.

_Don't you dare die. Not when there is so much between us to be discussed and not enough time._

Maker, he prayed would escape the Fade. Cullen needed to know what Evelyn wanted to discuss with him. Something had happened between them. He could remember the pain of her absence, but he couldn’t remember why they had quarreled.

He could make things right between them, if only he could speak to her.

He trudged on.

 

For a long time, he perceived no change in the endless Void. After an indeterminable length of time -- he had lost all sense of time and direction -- he held a hand up in front of his face, and wiggled his fingers. The light was exceedingly dim and a watery gray, but Cullen could see.

His spirits rose and he found new energy to continue his trek. He didn’t not know where he was going, but he knew it is imperative that he not give up. There was something -- someone? -- waiting for him, if he could only persevere.

He had been a general once, he thought. Perhaps his soldiers waited, just beyond a rise. But there was another. A ruler … a queen, perhaps? _His_ queen; he felt that keenly. Whomever she was, she had his devotion. His muscles screamed in agony, insisted he had been walking for too long, but he increased his pace.

He wouldn’t keep his queen waiting.

 

Silence had reigned for so long that when snow crunched underfoot, the knight froze. As he stood stock still, something brushed his face in a flurry of cold kisses. Snowflakes melted as they settled on his skin.

The light had been getting brighter for some time now, and the knight was surrounded by a curtain of white; a snowstorm. He looked behind him, and his footsteps filled with snowfall, disappearing within a few feet. He exhaled, his breath a frosty plume. He shivered under layers of heavy plate and leather that ordinarily held body heat like a lover.

"Hello?" he called.

Nothing.

Even this windy, wintery white was better than the unrelenting darkness. If something came to kill him, he wanted to see it coming. He wanted a chance. There was a hidden danger here -- wherever here was. He couldn’t remember.

He passed young pines, drooping under heavy loads of snow. He broke branches so they pointed in the direction he had come as he passed. He couldn't follow his back trail, and it would be too easy to become disoriented in the ever-shifting curtains of snow. At least he would know if he came back this way again. Although he doubted it would do him any good.

His hands and feet had turned numb, but he reached a break in the tree line. It opened up into a small valley, framed by a mountain range. There was something oddly familiar about it ...

 

The knight gave up trying to cut across the clearing when he plunged down through the snow into a hidden sinkhole for the third time. He was in snow up to his chest and had to half-wade, half-claw his way out. He was soaking wet and shivering by the time he did. He knelt in the snow, trying to get his breath back, his teeth chattering so hard it was a wonder they didn't break. He couldn’t remember why he needed to cross the valley -- couldn’t remember his own name -- but he knew he needed to reach the other side.

There were answers there, he was sure. If he could reach them.

 

The soldier kept close to the tree line as he circled the valley. He must go on. There was something waiting. His memories slipped away like water through his fingers. He remembered little, but he remembered he had loved and been loved. He remembered solemn eyes, the rueful curl of a smile and long hair, dark like the forgiving night.

He had loved her more than the breath in his lungs. Now he could not remember her name. Did she wait for him? Was that the urgency that drove him?

Perhaps it was. He held onto the memory of her eyes. They could be solemn, thoughtful and sad, but he liked surprising or delighting her so good humor lit them. He loved when her eyes had that wicked glint that meant she was thinking about the two of them together.

He _would_ see her again.

 

There was a hand, gray and cold, sticking out of the snow. A few inches of a sage green and light brown sleeve were visible. The soldier staggered to a stop, feeling the pit of his stomach drop. Something about those colors … but no, he wore red and gold. Perhaps that of an ally, then? He dropped to his knees, pawing at the snow like a dog digging for a bone. He reached down into the hole and grabbed a shoulder, colder than even the snow, and pulled. The body _floated_ to the surface all too easily.  

As if it wanted to be found.

The young woman wore light leather armor. She wore an insignia of a lidless eye pierced by a sword and surrounded by flames. He wore no such insignia, but the sight of it made his mouth dry and his heart beat too fast.

Her eyes were wide and her mouth open in a soundless scream, so the soldier closed them. Her leather armor was dark with blood, and red crystals -- not frozen blood, but something else, something he shied away from, despite the seductive warmth -- crusted the wound. It was dangerous. He didn’t know how he knew, but he recoiled instinctively from it.

He arranged her so she had some dignity, then stood. Snow accumulated in her eyes, where her arms pressed against her torso and between her legs. The snow would swallow her again soon, but at least her eyes were closed.

It was all he could do for her.

 

The soldier found five more bodies. He couldn’t leave until he re-arranged them into a more peaceful, natural poses. He was surprised at how easily he manipulated their limbs; he thought they would have been stiff with the cold. Whatever had happened must have been recently. Had he been here?

Had he killed these people?

The soldier didn’t know. He only knew looking at their bodies dismayed him. He turned away. He had somewhere he needed to be.

He didn’t have much farther to go.

 

The man had made it to the other side of the valley. He had the vague impression he needed something here. What was it? He struggled hard to get here, but now he couldn’t think why, for the life of him. Tiredly, he rubbed the scar above his lip. He didn’t know how he got it.

Something was half-buried in the snow, a dark banner rippling like silk. Movement was agony, but he continued until he knelt in the snow beside it, dark like spilled blood. It was someone’s long hair. He swept away armfuls of snow and found a woman in a long, armored coat. He pulled her from the snow and she rolled bonelessly into his arms.

Her flesh was blue with cold, and frost rimed her lips and eyelids. Her features were finely drawn; she must have been lovely in life. Her left hand was shriveled and black, her palm flayed open down to the bone.

The man frowned. This had significance, but he couldn’t remember what. Was this what he had been looking for?   

The dead woman opened her eyes. “Cullen,” she croaked.

Was his name Cullen?

“Cullen,” she said again.

The sound of his name was a key turning in a lock. He didn’t remember everything, but he knew loved her. He couldn't explain how he knew this when he had lost all else. Knowing he loved her was like knowing how to breathe: instinctual and inevitable.

Her hands circled around his neck, devoid of living warmth. She pressed her lips to his, and she was as cold as the grave. She leached the warmth from his flesh. When she released him, he was dizzy and nauseous, sick, and shivering so hard his armor rattled. Exhaustion was an undertow, trying to draw him down into dark depths. If he removed his gloves, his flesh would be as grey as hers. He would give his life for her; his body heat was nothing.

"You're cold as ice." The words came out slurred between numb lips. "I will build a fire."

He managed to get to his feet, cradling her limp body against his chest. His legs shook so that every step might be the last. If he fell, he would not get back up. Then he would die, which was no great loss, he felt. But that meant she would die; unacceptable. He strengthened his resolve.

He found a sheltered spot in the lee of a large tree. A snow bank kept the winds from blowing in the other side. The snow was several feet deep, so there was no expedient way to dig down to the ground, and it was likely frozen solid.

He laid her down, then stripped off his tabard and wrapped it around her. Seeing her bundled in it, hurt -- she couldn't have been dead, the dead didn't speak -- and surrounded by snow gave him an eerie feeling of deja vu, as if time doubled on itself.

He wore a sword, but it would be unwieldy and useless for cutting branches. He found a knife on his belt and flint and tinder -- along with odds and ends that would be useful for surviving in the woods, including healing poultices, a length of cord and fish hooks -- in his wallet. He thought for a moment he might have been a ranger, but discarded the thought. Rangers did not wear heavy plate. Why he knew this and, until a few moments ago, had not known his own name was anyone’s guess.

He cut branches from the tree; they were green and would burn poorly. Unseasoned pine was bad for this, but he had nothing else. Perhaps if he were a ranger, he would know a better alternative. He knelt in the snow, his weight and the plate causing him to sink, and built his fire.

It took a long time to light. His hands were numb and clumsy and the wood was slow to catch. Finally, they had heat, but the fire would melt the snow beneath, sinking into the snow bank until the snow melt extinguished it. He dug snow away from the edges and moved her closer to the heat.

He thrust his hands close to the fire, rubbing them briskly to get the blood moving and return the feeling to them. He held them too close, in danger of burning them, but he couldn't feel the heat. He couldn't feel his feet either and would likely lose several toes. Now he had paused to rest, he trembled all over with fatigue. If he slept, he would not wake again.

His hands exploded with pain; the blood coursing back into half-frozen tissue, pins and needles. He shook them, but the pain didn't abate. He sensed past shadows of a pain more consuming than this, so he put it aside and turned to the pathetic figure who laid limp beside the smoky fire.

He knelt over her, running gentle hands over her limbs, checking for wounds other than the obvious, grotesque damage to her left arm.

She watched him silently with rheumy eyes clouded over with cataracts. Her lank hair fell haphazardly across her face. If his memory wasn't suspect, he would say she was smaller and her hair thinner than when he found her. Had her eyes been filmed over when she first opened them?

He was afraid to touch her left arm. It was fine down to the elbow, then: black, charred and withered flesh, the bone showing in places. He fumbled at his wallet, looking for a balm, although he knew it was foolish. The arm needed to be amputated.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He took it," she rasped. "You left and he took the mark.” Her cheeks were as hollow as a days-old corpse’s. “You left us all to die while you ran away.”

Every word hit him like an arrow between the shoulder blades. They felt true, like his own bleak thoughts.

“I could never leave you,” he said, confused. He couldn’t defend actions he didn’t remember. “I love you.” This also felt true.

“You left us and I died. You ran away like a coward.” She folded in on herself, shoulders hunched and knees drawn up to her chest, as if she protected herself from a blow not yet fallen.

He half-remembered echoes of pain, shame and guilt, but they were distant. What they were attached to, he did not know. Perhaps this. He bowed his head, penitent.

“Did you think I loved you, an unworthy, broken thing?” she asked. “An addict and mage-hunter? You are a man incapable of keeping his vows. I believed not a single one of your promises. You are filth. You are nothing.”

Belief was truth in the Fade.

“You didn’t deserve me.” The cataracts completely covered her eyes, but they were lit from within, blazing windows in a house that should be empty. “You don’t deserve love or kindness. You didn’t deserve the happiness you found with me.” In between one breath and the next, her hair had lost all color, a brittle, wild white tangle. Her fingers hooked into claws.  “You only deserve suffering and misery.”

This felt true, too.

Her jaw unhinged like a snake’s and opened wide, displaying a forest of fangs, her chin resting on her collarbone. She shrieked, and a blast of cold and ice accompanied the piercing wail. It knocked him back into the snow, and ice crackled as it coated his armor.

Maybe it would be better not to get back up, considering the truths the dead woman spoke. Giving up would be cowardly, but she said he was a coward. It would be true to his nature.

And letting go would be so easy. He closed his eyes, relaxing with a long exhale. He existed in agony and a deep white cold. The dead woman howled, and the cold pierced him like teeth. Maybe he forgot everything so he didn’t have to remember what he did to deserve it.

Then: the taste of salt -- was it blood? or tears? -- a feather-light brush of lips and warmth sliding across his skin like a lover’s embrace. He felt longing and grief not his own -- and a fierce and desperate hope that refused to die.

And: _I love you_.

With that declaration, memories crested over him in a tidal wave, overwhelming him: his hopeless infatuation at first sight; a fragile and delicate friendship; shielding him from overeager nobles without asking about the painful details of Kinloch; an impetuous, joyous first kiss; and supporting his choice to give up lyrium. He would not have given any of it up, not even knowing the pain that followed.

But he had a chance to make it right. He remembered, too, her fear for him before the battle and lying on the forest floor, watching his blood darken the fallen leaves. He prayed the mages were safe; let him have kept his vows at long last.

“Evelyn,” he said.

His skin was flushed with heat. He felt her like a bonfire, unquenchable and ferocious.

“Evelyn.” He struggled to his feet, shedding water and steam as the ice evaporated. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands. Drew his sword.

The dead woman hung in the air like the a gibbet’s victim without the noose, radiating cold and despair. She grinned like a fiend and expelled another wave of deadly cold. He had a shield in his hand, so he blocked with it. The cold roared toward him like something alive, but Evelyn’s magic was wrapped around him, and it flared like a torch so the cold could not touch him.

He stepped forward and parted the dead woman’s head from her body with a flash of steel. The demon collapsed with a lost moan, dissolving into a whirl of snow.

Cullen was alone in Haven, but he knew where he was and _who_ he was.

Hawke was right, he had been here far too long. That last demon almost did him in. How could he have forgotten Evelyn? Maker, this place could strip you down to nothing. He lost himself searching for an way out. He must do as Hawke suggested and _will_ a way out of the Fade.

He tried to think about the problem the way Hawke would. She found him when he dreamed about her -- Evelyn's magic must have found him the same way.

Thought took form and belief was truth in the Fade. It obeyed will.

He always had been strong-willed, and he wore Evelyn’s power like a mantle -- he could feel the weight of it. Did she feel this way all the time? It was a marvel she could stand it. Would her magic help him?

Cullen closed his eyes, frowning in concentration. He thought about the Haven chantry -- it should be here -- picturing every granite block and rough-hewn timber. In his mind's eye, he saw the large wooden doors, metal studs glinting in the sunlight; the slate floor, gleaming after a recent scrub; candlelight and shadowed corners; orderly rows of pillars and a soaring ceiling.

He remembered the low murmur of the chant, hurried footsteps, quills scratching as reams of reports and masses of missives were sent and received and hushed conversations. He breathed in deeply, remembering the scent of beeswax candles, incense, ink, soap, nobles' perfumes, and a hint of dust and old blood under it all.

He opened his eyes and the Haven chantry stood before him. It had been here all long, buried beneath the avalanche.

Cullen skimmed a palm over the rough blocks. They were solid.

Belief was truth and Evelyn’s magic had the power to enforce it and make it so. _I will walk through this door and awaken._ He offered a prayer, opened the door and walked through.

  
Cullen opened his eyes.


	26. Cullen's Unsure & Evelyn's Undecided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Dorian to the rescue, because these two couldn't get it together with a map, four hands and a brace of candles.

"She barely left your side when you were unconscious."

Cullen sat back and looked up at Cassandra. He missed his armor's weight, but didn't have the strength for full plate. His replacement armor wasn't ready yet. Dagna put aside all other work to complete it, using the Inquisition's stock of dragon bone. It would be a masterwork, she assured him.

Cullen raised an eyebrow at the extravagant materials and re-assignment of the arcanist, but was told it was "Inquisitor's orders."

"I know," he said to Cassandra.

He escaped the Fade a week ago and spent several days weak and barely able to stay awake for the parade of well-wishers. Evelyn kept watch over him; when he woke, she was there, and when he had a nightmare, it was her voice that drew him from it.  If he woke in pain or with a chill, it was her magic that surrounded him. He knew the touch of her power and could mistake it for no other.

Cullen was not left alone with Evelyn, between visitors, nurses, healers and the surgeon, much to his frustration in his brief waking hours. When it was clear he would recover sooner rather than later, he was moved into the refurbished guard tower next to his office and saw Evelyn even less.

She continued to check on him. Cullen knew when she had been there, even when she came and left while he slept; her perfume hung in the air.

She had her duties, and he had his -- once he could manage to stay up longer than an hour at a time. He was sure she wasn't avoiding him; on occasion, she looked at him with such a strange expression, as if she were caught between surprise and relief. It seemed she was on the verge of speaking several times, but thought better of it.

"I don't think you realize how shaken she was," Cassandra said. "We feared what would happen to her if you ..."

"If I died," he said evenly.

"Yes." Cassandra's dark eyes were somber. "I would have grieved as well if you died, Cullen."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. When Cassandra arrived in Kirkwall, he expected to be drummed out of the Order, and the prospect had been a relief.

Duty didn't allow him to give up, and Kirkwall had been chaos. The sheer cost of life after the chantry explosion was staggering. Cullen and his templars pulled men, women, children and infants of all races from the rubble. Lowtown, with its narrow streets and dilapidated buildings pressed cheek and jowl against one another, was especially hard hit.

They had to burn mountains of bodies and the choking, stinking smoke cast a pall over the city.

Healers were needed for the wounded, but the fighting at the Gallows killed many of them. The irony was bitter, and Cullen heard those suffering without hope of surcease screaming in his nightmares.  

Some took advantage of the chaos to loot and riot. Many survivors were killed, raped and robbed as the city guard and templars struggled to rescue those trapped, tend to the injured, identify the dead and feed, shelter and clothe the displaced.

If Cassandra arrived in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, Cullen couldn't have left his post, but a semblance of order had been restored and the political games had begun …

He expected to be called to account for his failure to stop Meredith sooner. She was his commanding officer, but also his responsibility. That he followed orders was no shield. They were orders that perverted the Order's mission, and he knew it. His fear was overwhelming, but he could not admit to it, so it festered and tainted his interactions with mages.

He had been kind to Kinloch Hold's mages, and that kindness didn't save him from violations of body and mind. In the wake of what they did to his mind, the pleasure and horror they wrung from his body was nothing.

After he realized he hadn't retired and wed Solona, there was only horror and all that came before was tinged with revulsion and shame. He waited for love, but loved and was "loved" under a cruel guise; that his first experiences had been such … it still made him ill. The other templar survivors had seen; all his longings were laid bare. His secret was only kept with their deaths. The price of secrecy was not one Cullen would have willingly paid.

He never dreamed so many -- any -- Kinloch mages practiced blood magic. They hid it so well; Cullen couldn't trust any mage after that. Anyone helping mages exposed templars -- and worse, innocents without their training -- to the same torture Cullen endured. He would go to nearly any length to prevent that, and Hawke frequently had confronted him about his forays into brutality in his zealotry.

But instead of the punishment or exile he had earned, Cassandra brought him before the Divine, who offered him something absurdly rare: a second chance.

Second chances were unfamiliar territory. The idea he could fail in his appointed task, yet try again, was ... breathtaking. That a commanding officer -- his leader -- could offer understanding instead of exile or punishment was foreign. No one ever tried to put Cullen's broken pieces back together or heal his hurts before.

Cullen would have died for the Divine.

Instead, he failed her. That the knights-divine also failed was no comfort; they died with Justinia. His despair was deeper than in Kirkwall.

Then: _Evelyn_. He was taken by her beauty and felt such things as he had not since the Desire demon's illusion was broken. If raw want was all he felt, he would have ignored it. Cullen was accustomed to physical deprivation.

But she cared about the common people, about their soldiers, about his welfare. She shielded and sheltered, risked her life and staged rescues, and offered comfort and kindness.

Cullen hadn't thought he could have yet another chance; not in his wildest dreams.

Falling in love with her was as natural as dawn following night. That she would love him in return was something for which Cullen was woefully unprepared. There were many things he should have done differently ...

He glanced up at Cassandra. He had let the silence spin out too long. "I treasure your friendship, Cassandra."

"And I yours, Cullen. This is why I am telling you this. All saw how the Inquisitor cares for you. Except you." She studied him with such intensity that he wanted to squirm like a green recruit. "I thought you should know."

"Thank you."

"Don't be a fool," Cassandra said. "That is all I ask. We will confront Corypheus sooner rather than later, and you two have had enough mistakes and misunderstandings for a lifetime. Be plain with one another. You are my friends, and I want you to be happy, but you must communicate clearly.

“Tell her what is in your heart. You will not be surprised by what is in hers." She planted her hands on her hips and glared as if she expected an argument.

"You're right, Cassandra," he said. "I should have listened to you more times than I can count." He looked down at his ink-stained fingers. He had worn gauntlets for more than a decade, and he missed that protective barrier. "If you were to give up being Leliana's Right Hand, I imagine you could take up giving advice in the ... what is it called?" He frowned. "All the ladies are fond of it."

Cassandra stared blankly.

"They review the latest romances." Cullen shuffled through the papers on his desk. "The fluttered scarves?"

Stone-faced, Cassandra crossed her arms.

"They savaged the last chapter of that romantic rubbish of Varric's you wanted me to read." Cullen moved a stack of reports. "Ah, there it is -- the Randy Dowager."

"I don't read such things," Cassandra said coolly.

Cullen shrugged. "If you don't want it, I'll use it for kindling. Varric gave it to me, but I can't imagine why." Cullen raised an eyebrow. "He said he thought I could use some reading material while I was on the mend."

Cassandra fussed with her gauntlets. "They criticized Swords and Shields?"

"They said Varric inexplicably killed off the most compelling character and replaced him with a mustache-twirling subversion of a Tevinter stereotype."

Cassandra gasped. "Magister Pavolotti isn't a replacement for Captain Colin! Let me see that." She snatched the page out of his hand and scanned it. "Ridiculous! I will write a strongly worded letter," she muttered.

Cullen coughed, and Cassandra pinned him to the wall with a glance.

"Commander, we will not speak of this to anyone."

"Of course."

She huffed. "And Cullen?"

"Cassandra?"

"You will wipe that smug grin off your face."

"Yes, Seeker."

 

Cullen was exhausted. He tired easily now, and it dismayed him -- almost as much as his ravenous appetite did. He couldn’t get enough to eat or enough sleep. He needed to recoup his strength quickly. They would find Corypheus, and he needed to take the field with his Inquisitor.

He needed to _talk_ to his Inquisitor. His fellow advisors and Cassandra had shouldered as much of the workload as they could manage -- both Cullen's and Evelyn's -- during his extended illness, but once they returned to their duties, the amount of work was overwhelming.

On three occasions, he had approached Evelyn and one or the other was pulled away. It was teeth-grindingly frustrating, almost as if some unseen power was intent on keeping them apart.

He sighed, shoulders drooping. Tiredness stole his concentration. It had been a fortnight since he awoke and less than a week since the resumed his duties. He pushed himself hard, but Evelyn did as well.

Several times, he visited her apartments, only to find her asleep over a book -- in addition to trying to catch up on Inquisition business, she continued to research potential methods of rescue for Hawke, galavanized by her appearance to Cullen in the Fade. Cullen chose to leave quietly, letting her sleep.

If he were honest, he could have spoken to her privately. Self-doubt was as powerful and its hold as difficult to break as addiction.

She loved him, of that he had no doubt. And he loved her devotedly, desperately. But he also knew he was unworthy of her love. Did he dare rekindle their relationship when she would be better off without him?

There was a knock at the door and Cullen sighed, tossing his quill aside. He didn't have time for this incessant self-flagellation. He had work to accomplish.

"Come in," he called.

Cole entered, and Cullen was pleased he remembered to knock and enter through the door instead of coalescing out of shadow. Varric had been working with him.

"Good morning, Cole," he said.

Cole tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. "Ah. Good morning, Cullen."

Evelyn took Cole to Redcliffe on some mysterious errand, and when they returned, Cole was different. Cullen could not explain exactly what the change was, except to say Cole was happier.

"I've brought you a new joke." Cole peered from beneath the wide brim of hat.

"I am ready to hear it, then." It was a small thing, but it proved a distraction at times Cullen desperately needed one, and he was grateful. He was able to hold his addiction at bay on occasion by considering what joke he would tell Cole when the boy next visited. Cullen couldn't fathom how Cole knew he needed something to focus on, but it was one of his talents.

"I walk on four legs at dawn, two legs at noon and three at dusk. What am I?"

"Cole, that's a riddle, not a joke," Cullen said, not unkindly.

"There's a difference?"

"A joke is meant to make you laugh, and a riddle to make you think," Cullen said. "The best of either do both."

Cole considered this for a moment. "They can do both?"

"It's confusing," Cullen agreed. "Would you like the answer to your riddle?"

"Yes."

"A person: a baby crawls, an adult walks and an elder hobbles with a cane."

Cole sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows braced against his knees and chin on his fists, and thought about it.

Cullen turned back to his reports, letting him mull in peace. He made a note to remind Ser Morris the ponchos no longer needed in Crestwood could be re-distributed in the Fallow Mire.

A moment passed, then: "Ah. Yes. Okay."

Cullen leaned forward so he could catch Cole's eye. Eye-contact was difficult for Cole and after a brief moment, Cole focused on the bookcase to the left. Cullen didn't press him.

"Would you like a riddle or a joke in return?" he asked.

Cole pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs, and considered the question. "A riddle," he said. "This time."

"I have no body, just a head; I do not sleep, but have a bed. I run, but never walk; have a mouth, but never talk. What am I?"

Cole pursed his lips. "Is it a spirit?"

"A very good guess, but no."

Cole nodded slowly. "Shall I come back with the answer?"

"Yes. If you can't figure it out, I'll give you the answer; it is supposed to be fun, not frustrating. If you find another joke, you needn't wait."

Cole clambered to his feet, all elbows and knees. He had that particular unfinished adolescent skinniness. Cullen wondered if he would grow out of it now, no longer bound to a dead boy's shape, but capable of change and growth.

Cole hovered, hesitating.

"Goodbye, Cole."

Cole nodded, pleased. "Goodbye, Cullen."

Cole was learning social conventions slowly but surely. It was likely he would never have a complete mastery, but he tried, and Cullen admired that.

It was the effort that mattered, not the result. No two recruits had the same result, anyway, and failing to tailor tactics to the strengths of your people was short-sighted.

Cullen hid a smile; he did not wish Cole to think Cullen was amused by Cole's attempts. Cullen started out regarding Cole as a dangerous spirit, but came to think of him as one of his own -- probably because of Cole's efforts to help him.

Cullen couldn't have done that even two years ago -- changed his opinion on someone so closely tied to magic and the Fade. He also was improving, slowly but surely.

Cole had his own struggle, although his sins were not so great as Cullen's -- Cole believed he did mages a kindness, while Cullen knew he was in the wrong, despite his self-justifications -- but he still went out of his way to help Cullen. If Cullen smiled, it was because he was grateful for Cole's assistance and how far their friendship took him. He was grateful to see Cole as a friend and person, instead of a danger.

Cole was more worthy of Evelyn's esteem than Cullen. His progress was quicker and his obstacles greater.

Cole froze in the doorway, his back to Cullen. "Not unworthy," he said. "Beloved."

Cullen started. "What?" It was unnerving when Cole read his thoughts. A person should have privacy within their own skull, and Cullen was more sensitive than most to the loss of it.

Cole turned. "Not unworthy," he said again. "She never thinks that, not even when she's angry, and you are a stubborn, block-headed templar mired in Chantry propaganda."

Cullen choked back laughter.

"Beloved," Cole said. "Always beloved, her heart's safe harbor."

Cullen's own heart leapt, but Evelyn's private thoughts should be her own, no matter how tempting to hear. Besides, he knew her heart; Cullen didn't need outside confirmation.

"Cole, people's thoughts are private," he said gently. "I know you can't help hearing them --"

"Their hurts call to me," Cole murmured.

"But you shouldn't repeat them, especially not to anyone else," Cullen said. "People's thoughts should stay in their heads."

Cole cocked his head and met Cullen's eyes of his own accord. "If people's thoughts should stay in their own heads, why do you keep putting _your_ thoughts in _her_ head?"

 ##

Her face was serene. Evelyn was certain of it.

Skyhold roiled with turmoil, soldiers and servants scurrying around like a stomped-on anthill, but her face gave no clue to her feelings. They didn't show in her expression, not once, as she had walked from the war room through Josephine's office and through the great hall to her apartments. Everyone had watched her in silence, but she gave them nothing.

She gripped the balcony railing so tightly her knuckles were white. She was light-headed, and she hadn't fainted out of a sheer act of will. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird in a cage. She looked up at the emerald sky and swayed, despite herself.

The tear grew visibly by the hour. She watched it widen, like a hungry mouth, ready to swallow the world whole.

A wave of overwhelming exhaustion threatened to drag her down. All she had done, and there was more. Evelyn widened her eyes and looked up at the sky so tears wouldn't fall. She tasted coppery blood on her tongue; the insides of her cheeks bled freely.

She wasn't surprised by the footsteps on the stairs. Whoever it was crossed her chamber and paused at the doors between the room and the balcony. Evelyn half-turned, looking over her shoulder. Dorian stood with his arms crossed, his expression unusually pensive.

"Dorian." Her voice was husky, but it didn't tremble.

In two long strides, he crossed the balcony and gathered her in his arms. She shook and would have fallen if he hadn’t held her up. Dorian rocked her, rubbing her shoulders and holding her tight.

"I seem to be crying on your shoulder an awful lot of late," she said.

"Usually when I leave women weeping, it's because they're broken-hearted I can offer them nothing more than a flirtation," he said.

A mix of laughter and tears made her cough. It wasn't very funny or delivered with Dorian's usual panache, but she appreciated the effort.

"You'll be fine," Dorian said fiercely. "We will set things on fire until the problem is resolved."

She sighed. "I'm not worried about myself ... Dorian, if something should happen to you ... any of you ..." She gulped air, her stomach in knots.

"Come and sit down." With uncommon subtlety, Dorian supported her as they crossed -- well, she staggered -- to the chaise.

She sank down, fighting waves of nausea. Her legs were numb and her lips and fingers tingled. She leaned into the arm of the chaise, tiredness making her limbs heavy.

Dorian disappeared into the wine cellar for a moment, reappearing with a glass of watered wine. He handed it to her and she tipped her head back for a long drink; he had poured the water with a heavy hand.

Dorian pulled an Orlesian chair over and sat so he blocked her view outside. Still, the green glow cast an unholy light through the stained glass.

No matter what she or Dorian did, they couldn't escape the reminder, even temporarily.

"I had to practically wrestle Cullen to stop him from chasing after you," Dorian said. "I thought I'd seen him at his grimmest, but he managed to plumb new depths. I told him you needed your mood lightened and sent him packing to the chantry to work some of that black mood out in prayer."

She smiled wanly. "I ... it is good to hear he is concerned."

"Concerned?" Dorian arched an impeccable eyebrow. "He is beside himself." He hesitated. "He loves you, you know. With unabashed devotion."

At that, tears did escape, rolling down her cheeks. She struggled to regain control, clenching her fists and breathing through her nose.

Dorian wiped the errant tears away with his thumb. "I won't tell you not to cry. If anyone deserves to shed a few tears, it's you."

"I won't ... I can't ..."

"You don't have to be in control all of the time, Evelyn." He took her hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze. "No one can control everything, not even the Inquisitor. And you shouldn't have to try."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she choked out. “That something will happen to one of you. I almost lost Cullen, I could lose any of you. It would kill me to lose you, Dorian.”

He brought her hands to his lips and pressed a brotherly kiss to her fingers. “We all knew what we were signing up for, and we knew the potential cost. If it costs my life -- any of our lives -- to save the world, then so be it.” His lips quirked into a smile. “Besides, I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a martyr. And think of the tales and songs!”

“That’s not funny, Dorian,” she said quietly.

“I thought it was a solid effort.”

“I am going to leave you here if you insist on behaving this way.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Take it as you will.”

“You smiled, at least. That’s something.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “Thank you. I … I needed that.”

“I know. I’ve always said a smile looks good on you.”

She looked away. “I’m … afraid. To lose any of you. To fail the Inquisition. To be unable to stop Corypheus.”

“A tall order, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Maybe,” she said. “It might cost me my life.” She turned her left hand palm up and watched the play of light and shadow. “I don’t know what will happen, if I try to close the Breach again. If Corypheus tries to stop me. I’m afraid that it will cost one of your lives.”

“You’re not worried about yourself? Especially after you and Cullen have reconciled?”

She pulled her knees up to her chest. “We haven’t had a chance to speak, really …”

“You … what?” Dorian pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and flopped back in his chair, legs outstretched. “Are you telling me that you haven’t kissed and made up? After he spent months brooding and looking at you whenever he thought he wouldn’t be caught? And you spent days and days at his bedside, crying whenever you thought you wouldn’t be noticed? When the sexual tension between the two of you is stifling even when you’re so angry at one another, you aren’t speaking? What are you waiting for?”

Evelyn squirmed. “The right time.”

He sighed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the verge of an apocalypse. Now’s not the right time for anything, but it may be the only time you have.”

“But what if --”

Dorian leaned forward. “What if you say nothing and, Maker forbid, you die? What do you think that would do to Cullen? The man is completely besotted with you, he’d go to his grave grieving -- and probably in a hurry. Don’t do this to him or to yourself, Evelyn. There isn’t a single reason why you shouldn’t tell him that you’ve been in love with him as long as I’ve known you and still are in love with him, despite every foolish thing the two of you have managed to do to keep yourselves apart.”

“The last thing I want to do is to hurt him,” she said. “But what if telling him I love him, then going off to die hurts him more?”

"Bull and I have spoken," Dorian said steadily. "If one of us should fall --"

"No!"

He smiled and it was gentle and sad. Dorian pressed a finger to her lips, and she lapsed into silence. "If one of us should fall, we know one another's hearts. You are at greater risk than any of us, Evelyn. Do not deny yourself the opportunity to set things right. Do not let uncertainty rob you."  

His lips twitched with amusement. "And if I might offer one more suggestion? When you go to him ... don't bother with small clothes. I very much doubt you'll need them."

##

"A prayer for you?" Evelyn asked.

Cullen wasn't surprised. She stood in the doorway for several moments before she spoke. He heard her footsteps and smelled her perfume, but even without those things, he knew. He was finely attuned to her presence.

"For those we have lost." He hesitated. "And for those I am afraid to lose." He endured much and survived, but losing her was more than he could bear. Let her scorn him for the rest of her days, but let her live and he would be content.

"You're afraid?" She stepped closer, looking up at him. She was so close, yet he couldn't touch her.

"Of course I am. Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mithal. What more is he capable of? It is only a matter of time before he retaliates. We must draw strength wherever we can." Anything she needed, anything she wanted, he would give her gladly and damn the consequences.

"When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again," he said. She accomplished much, and they asked her to do more. _He_ asked her to do more. There was no limit to what their cause demanded. It could take everything, even her life. "Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him."

"What if I can't ... Cullen, if I don't ..."  So much vulnerability and such a thin veneer to hide it.

"Maker, no." He gathered her into his arms, and, needing comfort, she didn't pull away. Stopping his heart from beating through an effort of will would be easier than releasing her. She was in his arms again and it felt like something missing found, like coming home again after a long journey.

"Whatever happens, you will come back." Anything else was unthinkable.

"I certainly hope so." The words were measured, but she held onto him like she was drowning. If only he could bear this burden for her.

"The thought of losing you ... I can't." This might be the last time he held her. He committed the moment to memory: her arms around his shoulders and her breath on his neck, the candlelight warring with the shadows and the shafts of golden, late-afternoon sunlight spread across the floor, bird song mingling with someone singing the Chant, the smell of her hair, and the statue of Andraste, arms raised in praise or benediction or supplication, watching over it all.

"Did need for prayer bring you here?" he asked.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "No. Fear of a fate worse than death: Never seeing you again."

"I would not allow death to keep us apart." Without her, the future would be a joyless life of cold duty.

"I am a heretic, so the Chantry said. And a templar is surely welcome by the Maker's side."

He brushed her hair back. "If that were so, I would seek you across the Void for however long it took."

"For a blood mage?" Her tone was light, but her body was tense and trembling.

"For you who have forgiven me much."

She traced his jawline. "So serious." She looked up at him, and now her smile lit her eyes as well. "Don't you know it is bad for your health?"

"So I have been told."

She brushed her thumb over his lower lip.

He closed his eyes. "Evelyn," he breathed. "If you want ..." Whatever she wanted of him, she could have: devotion, freedom, both.

"I want everything you are, Cullen Stanton Rutherford." She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss the scar above his mouth. "I want your laughter and your scowls. I want you to beat me at chess, tell me I'm wrong, share your days with me and wake up beside me. I want you. And if I don't come back ..."

He shook his head.

"If I don't come back, I don't want there to be anything unsaid between us. I thought I would die at Haven. I had many regrets, and foremost was that we parted with harsh words for one another. Then, the Arbor Wilds … “ She closed her eyes, pain written across her face. “I thought _you_ would die. And I had not told you … Again, we face something that seems insurmountable. I would not leave you with any uncertainty." She hesitated, looking up at him, and her eyes shimmered with tears she didn't let fall. "I forgive you. For everything. I ask you for your forgiveness in return. And … " She swallowed. “And I love you.”

Cullen would never ask for anything again if the Maker would allow her to return safely.

It was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her, and he didn't hesitate. He kissed her and prayed, and, somewhere amidst it, the kiss itself became a prayer for forgiveness.

Cullen handled her roughly, but she didn't complain as he backed her against the wall. For the first time since he woke, he was glad he couldn’t yet wear his armor. He didn’t want it between them, preventing him from feeling the soft press of her breasts. His hands were under her tunic, ghosting over her smooth flesh, and Maker, how he loved the feel of her, so fine and soft.

She closed her eyes and parted her lips in invitation, and he bent to kiss her, swallowing her sighs like wine.

"Not here," he said against her mouth. "Someone could find us." Despite his own warning, he palmed her breast, brushing a thumb over a hardening peak. She came to him without underclothes. It couldn't have been deliberate …

She unbuttoned her tunic, and he could see his hands on her, rough and calloused against silk. "Not if you're quick," she said. "Even if they did, they would just turn around and leave." She pulled him down for another kiss, running her tongue over his lower lip. "If they were quiet, we might not even notice them."

He wanted to argue with her, but she slid a leg up his thigh and wrapped it around his waist. She rolled her hips, drawing herself over him, and she was soft and warm. She tilted her face toward him, offering her mouth.

Cullen took what was offered, pressing her against the wall, clutching her hips hard enough to bruise, grinding into her and muffling her cries with his mouth. She wrapped her other leg around his waist, hooking her foot around his calf, arching her back and bracing her arms against the wall to push back against him, hips winding in frottage.

Cullen grunted as his stitches pulled and the strain of lifting her during his convalescence made his ribs ache.

She froze. "Cullen? Is this hurting you?"

He pushed her shirt off her shoulders, baring her breasts, and kissed along her collarbone. "I only have been able to do this in my dreams for months," he growled against her skin. "I'm not about to stop."

“Cullen ... “ she breathed, and her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.

He leaned back for a better angle and to watch the flush spread across her breasts and throat as she panted, lips parted, and chanted his name.

"Quickly," he reminded her.

"As you please." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He returned her kiss, rolling his hips against her as she moaned. They shouldn't be doing this, someone might come in at any moment, and they would be the source of even more scandalized gossip than they were now. However, Cullen could not deny her when she looked like this -- eyes heavy-lidded with passion, lips parted and swollen with kisses and skin flushed with excitement. Not when she said his name so sweetly.

She was close. Her kisses were fervent, her whimpers urgent and she alternated between threading her fingers in his hair, tugging at his shirt and sinking fingers into his biceps.

It was as if all these lonely months never happened. They only needed to be on the precipitous of death to find one another again. Even as she cried out into his mouth, straining, twisting and writhing against his body and he held her as she shuddered in the aftermath, limp and dazed, Cullen knew even his sincere regret was not enough, not when she might never return.

Evelyn stroked the back of his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I told you no one would catch us," she said.

"Are you so sure no one caught us? Perhaps they turned around and quietly left."

"Careful, people might start thinking you have a sense of humor." Arms still around his neck, she stood tentatively, as if she wasn't sure she could support her own weight.

"Unlikely," he said. "They would think it an aberration."

"It's a credit to the effort you've put into that grim and foreboding facade." Her mouth was swollen, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. Maker, anyone who saw her would know exactly what they did. At least they needn't straighten their clothes.

He kissed that swollen mouth. She was sated, but it would take him a few minutes to calm down and alleviate his discomfort. Longer, if he couldn't keep his hands off her. He craved the touch of her skin after so long denied.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then sank to her knees before him. For a confused moment, he thought she meant to pray. Then she undid his belt.

"Evelyn, no," he hissed. His heart pounded and his flesh leapt under her touch. "We will be caught."

She pressed her cheek against his hip and ran her hands soothingly up and down the back of his legs. "It adds spice, don't you think?"

"No." His breath whistled between his teeth. He could feel every stitch, every lacing in his breeches.

She pressed an oddly chaste kiss to his hip, and he jerked under her touch.

"Do you want me to beg?" she asked.

"Evelyn ..."

"Cullen."

They did not speak for a long moment, only the sound of his labored breathing breaking the silence.

"Did you think I don't know?" Her voice was gentle, even tender. "That it is easier for you when permission is sought and given?"

His heart stuttered in his chest, and he felt exposed, although he was fully dressed.

She knelt at his feet like a penitent, despite her armies and allies, her head bowed, her hair brushing his thighs. "I want nothing that is not freely given, Cullen. Not your forgiveness. Not this."

"I know." His voice was strangled. He felt many things: lust, shame, relief, despair, wonderment, embarrassment, love.

"Please, Cullen?"

He swallowed and closed his eyes, secure in her assurances: Nothing without his consent. He _could_ decide. Perhaps, even here, he could relax, shed command and follow.

"Yes."


End file.
